hermione danger

Annie was born into a line of powerful women. Her grandmother, Miss Letha, was known in Baton Rouge as a midwife and seer. Her mother, Celestine Moreau, was a traveling healer and conjure woman, moving through the river towns and Deep South communities offering her skills. Celestine didn’t just pass down tools—she passed down the memory of power, oral traditions, and spirit-led work.

Annie learned rootwork in childhood, helping grind herbs, fold petitions, tend crossroads altars, and gather graveyard dirt respectfully. After her mother died when Annie was in her late teens, Annie traveled for several years, learning from different practitioners in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. She returned seasoned, powerful, and revered—a woman people now call ‘priestess,’ though Annie doesn’t claim the title herself.

Smoke is Annie’s first.

Not just sexually—but spiritually tied. She grew up watching him from a distance, knowing he was dangerous and fine and not meant for her, until one day he became hers anyway.

Their love is carved in survival and fire. She held him when he came back from war, shaking and hollow. When the world felt like ash in his mouth, she was the one who reminded him how to breathe again.

Smoke had his twin brother, Stack—blood, bone, ride-or-die.

But Annie?

She was the home he came back to.

The place no man, no battlefield, no ghost could take from him.

Their bond runs deep but not smooth. They fight. A lot. But every word flung is a tether. Every wound bleeds red, but it binds them tighter.

“I hate how much I love you.”

“Then love me harder.”

Annie knew Elijah Moore before he became Smoke. Before the war, before the blood, before the prison. She knew him when they were both just poor Black Southern kids, raised hard and fast, picking cotton under the sun, running wild in the same dirt fields.

He had that quiet fire even then—the kind of stare that made grown men nervous, and women lean closer without knowing why.

She loved him before he had anything.

Before the guns.

Before the name.

Before the ghosts.

They married before he went away, ensuring to remain bound. He’d kissed her hand in the sugarcane rows and whispered:

“You wait for me, Annie. I’ll come back different.”

Elijah and Elias got locked up in 1925 for robbing a bootlegger, pistol-whipping him, and stealing crates of liquor meant for white hands only. They were twenty-five. Poor. Desperate. Tired of being broke and owned.

Annie had lost hope.

They went down for seven years—hard labor, chain gang, Red River stone quarries. The prison work that killed men slowly.

But Annie never stopped waiting.

And she didn’t just wait, she worked. To get that hope back. Even when she felt their love slipping through the floorboards beneath her feet.

She lit candles every Thursday. The day they were sentenced.

She made him a mojo bag and kept them in her drawer, feeding them with oil, tears, and blood on the new moon.

She buried a lock of Elijah’s hair in her backyard, tied to a coffin nail and a red thread, chanting:

“He ain’t gon’ break. He ain’t gon’ bow.

My man’s comin’ back whole somehow.”

She paid conjure women from Memphis for bone dust, war water, and secret psalms. She left food at crossroads. She carried the burden of belief every time no letter came, no word arrived.

And when she dreamed of blood, she’d burn sulfur and scream his name at the river.

“Don’t you die in that place, Elijah Moore. You don’t leave me here in this world alone.”

When the twins stepped off that prison bus, Annie could sense a change. Especially in Elijah. He was still her man, but he wasn’t the same.

He smiled when he saw her. He kissed her like nothing else mattered. But his eyes were sharper. His hands twitched more. He slept with a revolver under the mattress and didn’t talk about the nights he didn’t sleep at all.

He was happy to be free, yes.

But he was hungry—not just for her body, but for power.

“I ain’t goin’ back to the fields,” he said, “Ain’t breakin’ my back for pennies while somebody else eats.”

She understood. She did.

But she felt it, too—something new growing in him. Something wild. Something cold.

Smoke refused to return to sharecropping. He didn’t give a damn about quotas.

“I did time already. I ain’t gon’ do no more for a white man with a whip made of math.”

He’d rather run numbers. Hustle dice. Take money instead of beg for it.

And Stack?

Stack was the dreamer. The smooth talker. The one who’d sit on the porch at sundown and say:

“We could be kings, Eli. I’m talkin’ juke joints, backroom whiskey, heat in our pockets. We don’t gotta stay broke. We just gotta be bold.”

Smoke believed him.

And Annie?

She saw the road rising ahead of them like a snake stretched out in sunlight.

As their lives turned sharper, Annie’s magic deepened.

She started pulling cards more often.

Worked candle divinations.

Slept with a bowl of water at her bedside to catch visions.

She saw Smoke’s shadow stretching too far. She saw Stack’s eyes turning toward her in moments he didn’t mean to. Her own face, caught between love and sacrifice.

She asked the spirits, “Can I keep him safe and still love him right?”

They answered only with smoke and silence.

Smoke began to believe that money was the only real magic.

“Ain’t no root in the world stronger than a fistful of green,” he argued, “Money make men live longer. Make cops look away. Make white folks call you ‘sir.’”

Annie disagreed.

“Money don’t stop bullets. Don’t stop curses. Don’t stop grief.”

She never backed down. Not once.

“But I do,” she whispered, “Me and the spirits.”

And so began the quiet rift—not a betrayal, but a difference in faith.

Smoke chased control.

Annie conjured protection.

They loved each other with their whole bodies. But they were walking parallel paths, barely keeping touch at the fingertips.

The OG: Clifton “Cleve” Ray.

Born in 1882 in the swamps near Yazoo, Mississippi. His mother was a seamstress. His father, a violent gambler who vanished after a card game gone bad. Cleve grew up in juke joints and gambling houses, running whiskey before he could shave. He watched white bootleggers get rich and vowed to carve his own piece of the underworld, no matter the blood price.

Came to Clarksdale in his twenties. Cleve started small. Dice games in alleys, cheap moonshine in tin cups, a stolen pistol under his coat. By 1915, he had three businesses laundering his income, two women fronting brothels for him, and lawmen on his payroll.

“Rule one,” he told his men, “Don’t get caught without money for bail. Rule two: Don’t get caught twice.”

He earned the name ‘Cleve’ from how he ‘cleaved’ his enemies: split men open with his switchblade before he could afford a gun.

Cleve wasn’t flashy. He was strategic and calculating.

When Prohibition hit, he expanded his territory. Speakeasies, bootlegging routes, moonshine stills out in Lyon and Rosedale. Had a silver-handled cane he took off a white banker he pistol-whipped after the man tried to short him on a real estate deal. Kept it ever since. He survived gang wars with rival crews in Memphis and Greenville by outsmarting, not outgunning. Paid conjure women for luck. Hired thugs for everything else.

“I ain’t spiritual, but I don’t play with spirits.”

Cleve first heard of the Moore boys while they were still in prison.

Word came through his contacts. Two brothers, sharp as blades, fresh from a seven-year stretch for robbing a bootlegger. When they were released, he kept tabs on them. Watched how Smoke moved in silence, and Stack smiled like sin and gold.

Their first interaction came at one of Cleve’s backroom dice games. Stack cleaned the table with loaded charm. Smoke stayed near the door, back to the wall, watching everything. When one of Cleve’s men accused Stack of cheating, Smoke broke the man’s wrist in a single move.

Cleve just laughed.

“That kind of loyalty’s hard to come by. You young bloods lookin’ for work?”

He offered them muscle and money. Said he’d teach them the game if they kept their heads down. Gave Stack a job running books and ledgers, laundering Cleve’s bootlegging profits through a dry goods store. Gave Smoke control over collections and enforcement —his “left hand” as he called it.

“I made this town,” Cleve spat egotistical, “I’m lookin’ for the ones who’ll inherit it after I’m dead. Not before.”

But it was a lie.

Cleve never intended to share his throne. He believed the twins were tools—young, hungry, and eager. Replaceable.

He underestimated them both.

Stack started getting too slick with the numbers. Made side deals. Took meetings Cleve didn’t authorize. Smoke started earning a reputation of his own— feared, admired. Even the police spoke his name in whispers. Worst of all: a woman. A young, light-skinned Black girl Cleve kept as both his mistress and his prisoner. Annie never knew her—but Smoke saw her.

One night, Smoke helped her escape. Gave her train fare and told her to run fast and far.

Cleve found out days later. Didn’t say a word.

But his smile soured.

Cleve sent the boys to ‘handle a job’—collect from a man who owed him for crates of shine. But it was a trap. The man was already dead. Blood on the walls. A planted pistol with Smoke’s fingerprints. If the law got there first, Smoke would hang.

They left fast.

“You feel that?” Stack asked, “That was a funeral Cleve just wrote for us.”

Smoke said nothing. Just clenched his fists and lit a cigarette.

That night, they cleaned their guns, and they don’t wait.

The next night, they show up at Cleve’s juke joint like nothing’s wrong—dressed sharp, clean, cool.

Stack buys drinks. Laughs with the musicians. Smiles at the bartender.

Smoke disappears into the back with Cleve, supposedly to talk business.

Five minutes later, a single gunshot cracks through the music.

He died the way he lived: with a smirk on his lips and a hole in his chest.

“You boys think you runnin’ this town?” he gasped before he bled out.

Smoke leaned close, voice cold.

“We don’t think. We know.”

When Stack pushes through the door, he finds Smoke standing over Cleve’s body — the silver cane in one hand, the bloody pistol in the other.

“He was gonna kill us,” Smoke says simply, “So I killed him first.”

“You sure?” Stack asks.

“Ain’t gotta be sure. Just gotta live.”

They dump Cleve’s body in the river—cut his face, so no one can ID it too fast.

They take his books, his contacts, his stash. Some of Cleve’s men stay loyal out of fear. Others vanish. The Moore twins move fast—clean up the mess, take over the rackets, and quiet the town with violence.

But Stack knows something’s shifting in Smoke.

He’s not just hungry now. He’s blood-fed.

Cleve’s death didn’t just make space, it created monsters. The Moore twins took the empire, but the violence it took to get it never left them.

And Cleve? His name still hangs over Clarksdale like a ghostly whisper.

Some say his ghost haunts the juke joint they killed him in.

Some say he left a buried stash no one’s found.

Some say he watches from Hell, proud as hellfire of the boys who took his crown.

Meanwhile, Annie feels all of it.

The moment Cleve dies, her altar goes cold. She dreams of smoke, blood, and fire on the riverbank. When Smoke comes home afterward—silent, lips tight, jaw twitching—she knows something’s ended…and something worse has begun.

She works a ritual that night, alone in the kitchen.

“Don’t let my man get drunk on blood. Don’t let him turn into the thing he’s fightin’.”

But the spirits whisper.

You ain’t just holdin’ him. You feedin’ him. You love the fire too…

Even with Cleve’s operation in their hands, they need real capital to grow, to pay bribes, arm up, expand beyond Clarksdale.

Stack says it first.

“We get in, get out. Arkansas bank. Payroll day. No one’s expectin’ us.”

Smoke doesn’t blink.

“Long as I get to pull the trigger if someone flinches.”

Stack studies his brother a long time.

“You gonna like this too much.” Stack said.

“Already do.” Smoke replied.

August 1932. First National Bank. Little Rock, Arkansas.

The country’s neck-deep in the Depression. Banks are failing. Working folks are desperate.

Stack got the location and routine from a woman he seduced—a teller who worked the early shift. He charmed her, watched her movements, and learned the layout. The Plan: Hit the bank just after closing on a Friday. Fewer people, limited staff. They’d come in from out of town dressed as a traveling jazz duo: Stack with his guitar, Smoke carrying a horn case loaded with weapons.

The black Ford Coupe rumbled into Little Rock just past noon, heat shimmering off the pavement. Inside, Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore lit a cigarette off the car lighter, dark shades over his eyes, jaw tight. Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore adjusted his cuffs and checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair back into place.

“You ready?” Stack asked, voice smooth as a psalm.

“Always,” Smoke replied, blowing a thin stream of smoke through his nose.

They pulled around the side of First National Bank, nestled between a tailor and a tobacco shop downtown. Stack climbed out first, dressed like a traveling bluesman—double-breasted linen suit, guitar case slung over his back. He didn’t give his twin a backwards glance, wanting to get this shit going to avoid getting caught. Stack entered the bank and he tipped his hat at the pretty clerk inside, flashing gold-capped teeth.

“Afternoon, sweetheart. Y’all still takin’ deposits from the Lord’s musicians?”

The teller giggled. He always had a way of making women forget their job. As she chatted him up, Stack’s eyes danced around the lobby. He clocked two guards, an old white banker in the glass office, a sleepy-looking manager, and just three civilians.

Exactly what the girl had described.

Outside, Smoke exited the car with a horn case slung at his side. Not a note of music inside—just a sawed-off shotgun, two pistols, and a soft velvet bag for the cash.

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

“Ain’t no music today,” he growled. “Just business.”

The guards reached, but Smoke moved faster, shotgun raised.

BOOM!

One caught a blast to the shoulder, sent spinning into the marble wall. The other froze, dropped his weapon.

Stack pulled his pistol from his jacket and pointed it at the manager’s head.

“Don’t be stupid. We don’t want your blood. Just your goddamn money.”

Smoke hurled a satchel over the teller counter.

“Fill it. Big bills. No tricks.”

The room fell silent except for the shaky rustle of money being packed into bags.

The vault opened—a stroke of luck, or fear. Inside:

$42,000 in cash. A lockbox of private jewelry, heirloom wedding sets, pearls, uncut stones. Two gold watches, war bonds, silver dollars. Stack lifted a silver cigarette case with engraved initials and smirked.

“Somebody’s daddy gon’ miss this.”

Smoke tossed in a handful of rings and chains, then moved to the front door—watching.

“Two minutes,” he barked, “Clock’s runnin’.”

A new face emerged—a rookie guard, young and dumb, probably just stepped out of the back.

“Freeze!”

He raised a revolver and fired. The bullet clipped Stack’s shoulder—not deep, but enough to piss him off.

Smoke turned and fired once—clean and fast. The guard dropped like a bag of rocks, head against the teller’s counter, blood already spreading across the floor.

“Fuck,” Stack hissed, clutching his shoulder.

Blood seeped between his thick fingers. He hissed with pain and a furrow of his sweaty brows.

“He moved first,” Smoke muttered, “He chose.”

The mood shifted. The civilians whimpered. The banker pissed himself.

“We done here,” Smoke snapped, “Load it up.”

Smoke snatched the bag full of the stolen goods, finding it heavier than he expected. Stack glanced over at the Bank Teller, winking at her before rushing out the door behind his twin.

They burst out the back, climbed into the Coupe, and peeled off down 7th Street, tires shrieking.

They didn’t speed at first. Stack insisted on blending in until they hit the outskirts. Once clear of town, Smoke floored it, roaring through the backroads of Arkansas, headed toward Mississippi.

Little Rock to Helena then they crossed the Mississippi River, straight Into Clarksdale by backroads.

They burned their clothes behind an old shack near Tunica, tossed the horn case into the river. Stack’s shoulder was bandaged in silence. Smoke didn’t say much—just kept stroking the mojo bag Annie gave him, the weight of blood settling in his chest.

“We did it,” Stack said finally, exhaling.

“Yeah,” Smoke replied, “Ain’t nobody gon’ stop us now.”

The shack outside Tunica reeked of mildew, soot, and sin. The inside was lit only by the golden hush of late afternoon. Dust floated thick in the still air. Stack sat shirtless on an overturned crate, teeth gritted, a clean bullet hole in his upper shoulder. Not deep. Not fatal. But it burned like hell.

He poured moonshine over it and hissed through his teeth.

“Son of a bitch got lucky. Shoulda aimed lower. Might’ve earned himself another breath.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He was pacing the length of the room, gun still clutched in his hand, knuckles bared. His shirt was streaked with blood—not his own—and his eyes were somewhere else.

“You hear me?” Stack called, “I said I’m fine.”

Smoke didn’t stop pacing. Just grunted.

Stack pulled the bandage tighter, hissing again. He watched his twin from beneath furrowed brows.

“You still mad about the kid?”

Smoke stopped. Looked up. His jaw was clenched, the cigarette dangling from his lips barely smoked.

“He raised his gun,” Smoke said flatly.

“I ain’t sayin’ you was wrong,” Stack replied, “I’m sayin’ you liked it.”

A beat passed. Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“You ain’t never killed someone and felt a piece of yourself go quiet? Like you don’t hear the guilt, just the silence after?”

Smoke looked at him then—really looked. And something flickered behind his eyes. Not regret. Not remorse.

“No,” he said, voice low, “When I kill, I feel alive.”

Stack leaned back, eyes narrowed.

“That’s what scares me.”

Smoke flicked his cigarette out. Turned away. Began peeling off his blood-soaked shirt.

“Don’t get soft on me now.”

“Ain’t soft,” Stack spoke, “I just ain’t ready to burn up with you.”

They didn’t speak again. The silence between them wasn’t peace. It was weight. Blood. The slow slide toward a line they wouldn’t be able to uncross.

Annie sits in the living room of their Delta cottage as dusk settles in, the blues of the evening sky filtering through lace curtains. The quiet is thick and quiet enough that she can hear a cicada’s buzz deep in the swamp. She settles into a straight-backed chair by the fireplace, her hands wrapped around a tin cup of bittersweet tea flavored with moonflower and honeysuckle. The room hums with roots such as ginger, cedar, and willow, bursting from jars plus the scent of amber and tobacco smoke she’s kept simmering in a small iron bowl.

Years of rootwork have tuned her senses to her husband Elijah and his brother Elias. As she takes a slow sip, she closes her eyes, sinking into a trance. Her breath lengthens, her nostrils flare, and she inhales deeply into the aroma of cedar and smoke. The essence of their presence lives here, in the air she breathed when they were home, the dim corners where they exchanged silent glances, the old oak floorboards that still carry the echo of their boots.

She reaches for a small oyster shell on the table, tracing its edge, and sprinkles a mix of honey, fine ash, and valerian root from a small glass phial. It smolders and curls into smoke. With each rising wisp, she whispers their names.

“Elijah…Elias…” Her voice is soft, barely more than a wind through reeds, “Where are you now? Are you safe?”

In her mind’s eye, she sees two silhouettes creeping low through a moonlit field. Elijah’s broad shoulders leading the way while Elias glided not too far behind. The smoke in the room thickens, shifting like fog on the water. Creepily. Annie watched the swirling vapor, feeling every beat of their hearts, every calculated step, the sound of gunmetal in their fists echoing in her chest. Heavy. Exhausting.

She breathes in their heartbeat, feeling its steady rhythm, not frantic. That alone tells her they made it back, that they’re together and safe…for now. A wave of relief floods her, followed by gratitude and a sharp sting of pride. They’d planned this bank job for weeks, she’d helped them in her own way, crossing their paths with root-barns and honey-jars to dull suspicion, layering spells to keep luck on their side.

The room empties of tension, and for a moment, memory and flame flicker across the walls. The risk, the adrenaline, all of it melted away, and yet the ache for Elijah is fresh and raw. She stands, sets the cup down, and moves to the front window. In the distance, the old bayou whispers secrets against the hush of her house.

She whispers again, a blessing this time, brushing a single, feather-soft dandelion seed across the sill. She knows they’ll find it when they cross the threshold, her silent signal that she felt them home. That she carried them in her bones.

And just like that, she waits. She’s attentive, full of love and lingering fear, but anchored by one unshakeable truth.

they’re alive, they’re together, and in her place of roots and spells, she held them safe.

But then something else stirred within her.

Suddenly, her breath stills. Annie’s hands hover midair, eyes half-lidded. She feels it. That tug. That ache of longing. It’s not on her dress. Not on her skin. It burns deeply, right between her ribs. Like someone’s trying to call her by name but can’t speak.

Her lips part, slowly, “He thinkin’ on me…”

She walks to the front porch, standing in the doorway, moonlight draping her like a second skin. Her hips shift, her hand rests just above her belly, and she closes her eyes. The connection flares again. It’s searing hot and steady. Annie knows in her mind’s eye that Elijah’s holding something of hers. Probably that folded black and white photograph with a permanent crease in the center that she gave him the night before his last run, her laughing in her garden, a headscarf tied up high, lips painted beet red. Or maybe it’s more than that.

Something more salacious.

A pair of her bloomers. All silk, soft, still faintly holding her scent or a little strip of textured paper with her name written in his hand, three times over, blood pricked on the corner. Sometimes, when he’s alone, holed up after a job, Smoke’ll light a cigarette and pull out that keepsake bundle. He’ll press her panties to his face, eyes closed, breathing her in deep like she’s gospel and ghost. His hands would shake, not from fear, but want. Ached-up longing. Deep desire. He can’t be away from Annie for too long. It makes him primal. Animalistic.

Each time he touches those things, especially the mojo bag or her panties, Annie feels it. It’s in the curl of her spine. The warmth that spreads low in her belly. The way her heart skips a beat just before the wind kicks up out of nowhere. Sometimes she’ll hum a tune she doesn’t remember choosing. Sometimes her nipples harden without cause.

Sometimes she stands in the garden, barefoot in the dirt, and whispers soft and strong, “Come home to me, Smoke.”

And somewhere out there many miles away, he shifts in his seat or where he stands, rubbing the pouch and swears he can smell jasmine on the air. Because love like theirs? It don’t fade. Not when it’s rooted in hoodoo, blood, and breath.

Tunica was a rural area—mostly cotton fields, juke joints, dirt roads, and poverty, but also rich with blues culture and river trade. It sat in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, soaked in the same heat, ghosts, and gospel Annie knows. Folks might pass through there on the run, looking for work, laying low, or meeting with dangerous people under cover of night.

Fifty miles north of Clarksdale, the house ain’t much. It’s just one long room, patched with old boards, walls damp with river air and regret. A crooked screen door hangs open to the wind. Smoke sits on the edge of a thin mattress, elbows on his knees, his whole body humming with restlessness. Stack is in a different room, sleeping off the exhaustion of hiding out.

A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting shadows across his face like ghosts still lingerin’. His suit jacket hangs from a nail by the door, dripping wet from river water. He’s peeled off everything else but his slacks, sweat slicking his chest, the scent of blackpowder and steel still clinging to his skin.

Laid out in front of him are a bundle of keepsakes, careful as scripture. A pair of Annie’s bloomers, soft, silken, folded like a prayer. A photo of her, creased at the corners and the center, worn thin from being touched too often. Her smile in the picture got sunlight in it. She’s barefoot, garden behind her, one hand on her hip like she owns the whole damn world. Smoke picks up the bloomers first. Brings ’em to his face. Inhales.

Lavender. Honey. All Annie.

His fingers tremble. He ain’t afraid of no lawman, no devil in the swamp. But that feeling in his chest? That’s different. That’s missing her so bad it makes his ribs ache. He leans back, lays flat. One arm drapes across his forehead. The other clutches the mojo bag around his neck, stitched by Annie herself.

Inside that bag is dirt from under their bed, her hair twined with his, dried violet, his name written in red ink three times. Bound magic. Bound love. And he can feel it now. He can feel her. His woman. His wife. Not just memory. Not just longing. Her spirit presses against him like warm breath on his skin.

“You callin’ me, baby?” Smoke whispered low and hoarse.

He swears he hears her hum, all soft like she do when she’s makin’ salve or sweepin’ the front porch at sundown. He closes his eyes, and there she is in his mind, standing under their magnolia tree, arms crossed under her heavy breasts, lips pursed and sheened with lemon balm.

Then her voice, whispered and bold, drifts into the stillness all distant and aching.

Come home to me, Smoke…

He jolts upright, heart slammin’ like a drum. That wasn’t just his imagination. That was her spirit hand reachin’ through miles of swamp and field, tugging on his chest. He grabs the bloomers, kisses them rough, almost angry.

His voice cracked, “You got me out here losin’ my damn mind, woman.”

He presses her photo to his lips next. Then tucks both deep into the inner pocket of his suit jacket like something sacred. Heavy rain pellets hit harder outside. The wind whistles low through the cracks in the boards. He reaches for his pistol, checking the chamber out of habit, not fear. Ain’t no ghost or man could touch him while he carries her.

“I’m comin’, Annie. I ain’t stayin’ out here no more.” He spoke in a hushed voice soft and steady with a deep rasp.

Smoke lights a blunt with shaking hands, watching the smoke curl up like her scent might ride it all the way back to Clarksdale. Every breath he draws tastes like memory. He stays up the rest of the night, eyes wide, waiting for dawn and the road to carry him home to their porch, her blade, her hips, her arms.

All of it.

The screen door creaks as Annie steps out, her hands dusted with flour, apron tied snug around her waist. Morning light breaks across the field, gold and pink streaking the sky like bruises healing.

She sees them coming up the dirt road in Stack’s car—two dark silhouettes against the mist. The car rolls to a stop beneath the dirt of The Delta, and then they both open their doors in unison. Elijah walks steady, but his eyes are tired. Elias—Stack—has a hand clutched tight to his upper arm, a dark smear running through his shirt sleeve.

Annie’s heart kicks in her chest.

They make it to the porch before either speaks. Elijah’s taller in this light, jaw clenched. Stack is limping slightly, face unreadable behind those sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

Annie spoke stern but soft, “Y’all look like hell froze over and spit you back out.”

Stack grunted, “Ain’t far off.”

Smoke was quiet for a beat, then he parted his lips to speak with a low rasp.

“We made it home.”

She steps forward, holding the screen open with one arm. They cross the threshold like weary soldiers, boots tracking in Delta mud.

Smoke kisses her first—slow, deliberate. His lips land on her cheek but linger far too long, the corner of his mouth sliding near hers like he forgot where it was supposed to stop.

Annie stood half-smiling, pushing at his chest.

“Boy, don’t be actin’ needy soon as you cross my porch.”

Then Stack leans in, brushes her opposite cheek with rough lips—shorter, less weight to it.

“Thank you, Annie.”

She studies the blood on his sleeve, her smile fading. She places her hands on her hips, eyes sharp.

“Elijah Moore, you gon’ let your brother bleed out so you can get handsy?”

Smoke grinned low, “Ain’t like he dyin’. It’s a graze. Man caught a whisper of a bullet, and now I can’t even kiss on my wife?”

“Your what?” Annie sassed.

“You mine, Annie. You know that.” He whispered.

Annie narrows her eyes. The air between them tightens. She pulls Stack gently by the elbow and guides him to the kitchen table.

“Sit down ‘fore I tie you to the chair myself.”

Stack smirked through the pain. Annie removed her apron, nothing but a fitted haint blue dress underneath that left little to the imagination. She could feel Smoke’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.

“That supposed to be a threat or a promise?”

“Hush. Ain’t got time for neither.” Annie said.

She moves fast—pulling out a jar of pine gum salve, a tin of cayenne soaked in vinegar, and clean cloth. Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every move. He’s itching, twitching. His fingers run along the edge of the table, eyes glued to her hips as she leans over Stack.

She rips the sleeve with a practiced motion. Stack winces.

“Mmhm. Just a graze, but y’all always act like you done fought the war again.”

He spoke low and rough, “Ain’t fought no war, but I fought the devil himself to get back here.”

Annie doesn’t answer. Just wipes blood, applies salve, wraps Stack tight. But her movements slow when Smoke steps behind her, hands grazing her waist. His fingers slide around her hips, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips. His mouth dips close to her ear.

Smoke spoke, voice husky, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout your skin every night. Smellin’ you in my dreams. Had your bloomers in my damn pocket like a fool.”

Stack snorts behind them, shaking his head.

“Lord. I’ll leave y’all two alone ‘fore this kitchen catch fire.”

Annie turns just as Smoke’s lips brush her neck. She slaps his hand—firm but not unkind.

Smoke wouldn’t move. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deep. Annie chewed on her bottom lip to fight the tremble that fought to break through.

Annie elbowed him, “He still bleedin’, fool.”

Smoke growled, not backing off, “Then let him bleed outside. I’m tryna taste what’s mine.”

Annie looks over her shoulder, chin lifted, a slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“You taste me after you sweep this mess and clean your brother’s blood off my floor.”

Stack stands, nodding once.

“Thank you, Annie. You a good woman. Smoke, I’ma bow out. I’ll catch you later. I need a bath and my bed.”

He leaves without another word, the screen door clattering shut behind him.

Now it’s just them. Smoke steps in closer, arms sliding around her waist from behind. She leans into him, just for a second, then pulls away, smirking.

“Don’t think just ‘cause I missed you I’m gonna make it easy.”

Smoke spoke low, “I don’t want it easy.”

She turns to face him, and the heat between them ignites like the kindling of old sin and older love. Her hands rest on his chest, his heartbeat pounding like it’s tryna tell her something true.

“Then close the door, Elijah.”

And he does—slow, like he’s sealing in something sacred.

Annie stands with her back to the table, arms folded tight under her breasts, lips pursed. Her eyes lock on Smoke, who stands there like he owns the air she’s breathing.

He starts to speak, but she cuts him off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t even open that mouth, Elijah Moore.” Annie spoke low and sharp.

Smoke grinned, “Ain’t even said nothin’ yet.”

“And you don’t need to. ‘Cause I already know how it go. You vanish for two nights. You come back slick with sin and smellin’ like gunpowder. Got your brother damn near shot, and you lookin’ at me like I’m supposed to fall in your arms just ‘cause you brought your fine ass home in one piece.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets her talk. Let’s her feel it.

Annie spoke, voice rising, “I waited, Smoke. I sat up every night, watchin’ that road, fingers itchin’ for that blade, heart poundin’ like it was gonna give out. You out here makin’ moves and leavin’ me in the dark.”

Smoke spoke slow and low, “You done?”

“No, I ain’t done. You don’t get to disappear and then think you can just roll up, kiss on me, and—”

He crosses the space in two strides, grabbing her face in his palms—rough and warm—and tilts her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

He spoke, voice like thunder, “Hush all that gahdamn complainin’, woman.”

Annie’s breath hitches. He’s so close she can smell herself on him—how long he’s carried her scent. The pulse between her thighs throbs against her will.

“I know you mad. You got every right. But I ain’t out there chasin’ nothin’ that don’t belong to us. Every risk I take, every mile I run—it’s for you. For this house. For that fire in your eyes that’s burnin’ me up right now.”

She tries to pull back, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

He continued, voice dipped in honey and iron, “I need you, Annie. Not just your mouth. Not just your hips. I need that peace you carry in your chest and that hell you stir in my bed. So go ‘head and fuss. Let it out. But when you done? You gon’ come over here…” His hands slide down to her waist, pulling her into him, hard, “…and take what you want too.”

Her hands push at his chest, weakly now.

Annie’s breath is still ragged, her palms pressed to Smoke’s broad chest. His voice is in her ear, his hands claiming her hips like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he don’t hold tight.

But she narrows her eyes, not letting him have all the power—not yet.

Annie’s voice was low, dangerous sweet, “You keep runnin’ off and comin’ back bold…you gon’ find I’ve replaced you with my own peace and a clean blade.”

That makes Smoke pause. His mouth twitches—not in fear, but in pleasure.

He steps back slightly, reaching into the inner lining of his suit jacket, slick and damp from the rain. He pulls something long and narrow, wrapped in an oilcloth stained with soot.

“That right? Then maybe I oughta give you what I found…somethin’ to remember me by if I don’t make it home next time.”

He unwraps it slow—like a man offering something sacred.

It’s a knife. Not just any knife.

The handle is carved bone, smoothed by time and use, shaped to fit perfectly in a woman’s hand. There’s a faint rose motif etched along the base, and the blade gleams like silver lightning.

But it’s the engraving that stops Annie cold.

Right near the base, small and clean and wicked as sin, it reads

For a good boy.

Annie inhales sharply, lips parting. Her whole body tenses, thighs pressing together without thinking.

“Lord have mercy…” Her fingers twitch, needing to touch it. She reaches out slow, runs her thumb across the hilt, then the blade, “Where’d you find this?”

“In a drawer ‘longside some man’s wedding band and two stacks of dirty money. He ain’t need it no more. Figured…you would.”

He watches her eyes darken as she lifts the blade up to the light, admiring the craftsmanship, the weight, the message.

“You know what this say?”

“I know exactly what it say, baby,” Smoke leans in, voice low, “And I ain’t never been nobody’s good boy…but I’d be yours, if you ask right.”

Her lip curls, smile wicked now

“That so?”

Smoke spoke stern and hungry, “I brought you blood, money, and steel. All I want is you.”

She turns the blade in her hand once more, then looks him over slow—up and down, eyes heavy with want and mischief.

“Then you best act like it.”

That’s when he moves—fast, strong, scooping her clean off the floor. She lets out a soft, breathless yelp but doesn’t fight it this time. The knife remains in her hand as he carries her through the narrow hall to the bedroom.

Smoke spoke gruff and possessive, “Keep that knife close. You might need it…case you wanna mark me as yours while I’m underneath you.”

She laughs—low, dangerous, aroused.

“You already marked, Elijah Moore. I ain’t gotta carve nothin’. You carry me in your bones,” Annie spoke low and breathless, “You think you just gon’ sweet-talk me and I’ll melt like sugar in ya’ hands, Elijah?”

Smoke smiled slow, “Ain’t gotta think. I know.”

Annie spoke firm, but softening, “You ain’t gon’ disappear again, Smoke. Not without tellin’ me.”

“No, ma’am. I done learned my lesson.” Smoke said, voice thick.

“And you still owe me for them sleepless nights, nigga.”

“Oh, I’ma pay. In full. With interest.”

Smoke drops her on the bed like an offering. She lands with a soft gasp, dress bunched at her hips. He stands over her, dark eyes sweeping her from curls to toes.

“Now quit all that fussin’ and come get what you been missin’.” Smoke barked out.

Smoke just looked at her. Slow. From head to heel. Then back up. His chest rose with a deep breath, the kind that came before trouble. He reached up and undid the top buttons of his shirt with rough fingers, not rushing—not one bit.

“Take it off,” he rasped.

Annie didn’t move.

He let his shirt hang open, exposing a chest broad and scarred, with thick muscle carved from war and work. Sweat glistened in the dips of his collarbone, his skin the color of polished bronze kissed by dust and sun. A trail of hair led down past his navel, to where his slacks hung low, heavy at the crotch.

“I said, take off that goddamn dress.” Smoke barked out.

Annie sucked her teeth but obeyed, slow and deliberate. Letting the straps fall one at a time, baring thick, heavy breasts with dark nipples that jutted out like a challenge. Her belly curved soft and round, hips wide enough to birth a kingdom. That dress hit the floor, pooling at her feet like spilled conjure soap.

“Mmm…mmm…”

Smoke dropped his shirt. Undid his belt with one pull. His dick sprang free when he shoved his slacks down—thick, veined, already hard and twitching. Bobbing up and down in her face. Annie’s tongue poked out at the sight.

“Damn, Smoke…”

Smoke cocked his head as he stared her down, “You miss this big dick but wanna yell my fuckin’ ear off ‘bout me bringin’ bread home for us. I’m ’bout to tear your ass up, Annie.”

Her breath hitched but her eyes remained cold.

He stepped out of his boots, bare now, looming, his chest rising with short, deep breaths.

“I ain’t come home for no talk,” he growled, “Ain’t come back for no damn backtalk or bedtime stories. I came home for my wife. And I came home to bury myself between them thick thighs and take what’s mine.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed, lips parting to speak—but he cut her off.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, voice low and mean, “Don’t say a word. Not a sound ‘less it’s a moan. Or a cry. Or my name. ‘Less you want me to shove this dick down your throat to quiet you.”

He stepped closer, fingers curling around her jaw, rough and hot.

“You know what I been doin’, girl?” he whispered against her mouth, “I been sniffin’ them bloomers you left me. Lickin’ the crotch like a goddamn dog. I could taste you. Damn near lost my mind in that room, strokin’ my pole with your scent all over me.”

Annie whimpered—soft, defiant.

“I need the real thing. Need it wet. Need it wide. Need it now.”

He pushed her back—rough—onto the bed. She bounced against the mattress, thick thighs parting without him having to ask. But he still did.

“Wider,” he growled.

Annie spread for him, mouth parted, hands clutching the sheets.

“That’s it,” he muttered, climbing over her, “Just like that. Look at you—look at what you give me. Goddamn, you always open up so sweet.”

Smoke got down on his knees and used his tongue to slither between Annie’s pussy lips. Annie’s hips bucked. Smoke wasted no time using his long, thick tongue to suck and lick his wife’s neglected pussy. Annie kept her legs wide and her knees to her ears but Smoke applied a firm hand to keep her open. He wanted to see that pink. He wanted to see her open so wide with nowhere to go.

He slurped up her clit between his plush lips, making sure to keep it sloppy with his spit mixed with her arousal. He would close his eyes whenever the tip of his tongue slipped inside of her, tasting what spilled, then he would open his eyes to watch her face. He had her clit stiff and folds flushed and throbbing with a type of horny she’d been trying her best to satisfy in his absence.

Annie watched her husband suck her pussy up with a gaping mouth and shimmering eyes. Her breath would hitch and a choked up moan would escape each time his tongue flicked her clit.

“Fuck, Elijah.”

“Found ya’ voice? Eating this phat puss so good got you quiet now, huh?”

Annie gripped the back of his head.

“Elijahhhhhh—”

“Nuh uh…shut up.”

She was dripping so much it sounded like a stream between her thighs. Annie felt the beginning flutters of release. Smoke slowed down his feasting to give her open mouth slurps. His bottom lip would glide while his top lip remained flush against her clit. His tongue flicked up and down at a torturous pace.

Annie rolled her head from side to side, bringing her hands up to hold both fat tits. From Smoke’s position, all he could see was two big ‘ol titties with jutted out nipples swaying back and forth. He groaned so deep Annie shuttered. Smoke reached up to roll her nipples between his fingers.

“Smoke…I’m a cum…”

He didn’t speak. He continued with his slow eating. Lips smacking. Tongue flicking.

“Unhhhhhhhhhh—”

With a final flick of his thumb on her nipples and a graze of his tongue Annie fell apart. Smoke continued to eat her through her release.

Annie felt another creeping up. She couldn’t move. Smoke had her pinned and open.

“Fuck you, Smokeeeeee—”

Annie’s entire body writhed beneath his tongue.

Smoke gave her a final kiss to her clit that made her hips jerk. He stood and hooked his hand on the underside of his shaft, raising it up a little before releasing it, watching it collapse between her pussy lips with an obscene noise.

He pressed the tip of his dick against her wet folds, teasing the slick heat but not sliding in yet. He wanted her squirming. Wanted her needy. Wanted her ruined.

“You miss this dick?” he asked, grinding slow against her slit, “You miss me stretchin’ you out? Poundin’ you till your eyes roll?”

Annie didn’t answer. Just moaned—head thrown back, hands gripping the bedframe now.

Usually he would make her speak but the way her wet pussy felt on his dick he couldn’t take it.

So Smoke slammed in with one hard stroke.

“Goddamn—” he cursed, choking on the feel of her.

The bed groaned. Then rocked.

Annie groaned so deep. She gripped him tight.

Smoke pulled out to the tip and then drove into her again. Harder. Deeper. The slap of skin echoed through the room, rhythmic and filthy. He grabbed her thigh, bent it high over his shoulder, splitting her open and fucking her rough, unforgiving.

“You feel that?” he growled, “Ain’t no man ever gone fuck you like this. Ain’t nobody else ever gonna touch this pussy. You hear me?”

Annie tried to nod. Tried to breathe. Titties swaying and slapping into each other.

Smoke leaned in, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. He sucked on her nipples, unable to control himself because they were sitting erect and begging to be played with. He drilled with a roll of his hips. Never breaking aim at her spot.

“I’ll fuck you till you can’t walk. Till you limp for days. So everybody know you mine.”

She clawed at his back, mouth open in a silent scream. Her body shook, thighs trembling.

He didn’t stop. Not till he felt her break apart beneath him, her back arching like a bow, her climax rippling around his dick like a vice.

Smoke braces himself on her thighs, got up on his toes, and slammed down into her. Annie took it all like she always did, pussy so used to his big dick.

“Fuck your pussy, Papa!”

“Where am I?” Smoke growled.

“On Papa’s spot! On Papa’s spot!” She cried.

“Fuckin’ that attitude out real quick.”

Smoke slowed down. He buried himself deep, then his let his hips withdraw slow and steady, all the way to the tip. Then he would sink back in slow and with a roll of his hips. Over and over on his spot. Annie was at a lost for words.

She looked down and saw cream and whimpered.

“You gushing, baby…tell Papa how good he make this fat pussy cream.”

“Oooh–Papa…shiiit…you–fuuuuck…you makin’ it creamy…so damn good…”

Annie reached between and cuffed his balls. Heavy and tight. She rolled them in her palm while he stroked.

“I can feel it…”

Her voice was faint but Smoke knew. He knew his wife’s pussy. She was ready to let go.

“Keep that hand on my nuts…and keep this puss open.”

Annie used her free hand to spread her left cheek. Smoke increased momentum. The iron headboard banged louder and louder and louder the faster he went.

Sweat droplets flew from his body.

His balls sat warm in her hand.

His dick twitched against her walls.

“I’m ready to fuckin’ cum….gahdamn, Annie…”

Annie let go of his balls and felt them slap against her ass. The sensation mixed with the way he was claiming that pussy had her eyes crossing. Smoke leaned in and sucked on her jaw. Hard muscle surrounded plush flesh. Annie’s finger nails dragged down his arms, but his skin was so sweaty it didn’t mark him. Smoke peppered his kisses down her neck, over her nipples, and back to up until his lips founds hers. He buried his tongue in her mouth to quiet her.

When he broke the kiss, only then did he grunt, spill deep, and grind slow, letting every drop mark her as his.

When it was done, he hovered over her, chest heaving, voice thick with worship.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby,” he whispered, “This home. You my home.”

And the bed rocked one last time beneath the weight of his love.

The week after the heist rolls in hot and heavy, thick with summer heat and the kind of need that don’t fade with morning light.

Smoke’s been on Annie like a man starved.

He fucks her in the hallway before she can reach the kitchen, backs her against the pantry door with one hand up her dress and the other wrapped tight around her hair. He bends her over the table in the front room, knocks over her candle jars, and don’t even flinch.

He takes her in the rootroom, too—up against the shelves where she keeps her oils and dried herbs, her dress hiked high and her moans swallowed in the crook of his neck. The scent of sage, pine, and sex lingers in the walls now like incense that won’t lift.

They don’t talk about it much.

But it’s clear—ever since he came back, ever since he brought that blade and dropped his guard—he’s been claiming her over and over, body and breath, like a man afraid she might slip away.

And Annie lets him.

She lets him because every time he touches her, it’s with the heat of guilt and something deeper—like he’s trying to make up for every hour he left her wondering. When he kisses the inside of her thigh, it feels like an apology, slow and aching. And when he whispers “you mine” against her skin, he don’t mean it as a threat.

He means it as a prayer.

Outside, the house hums with life.

Smoke’s out back, hammer in hand, rebuilding the porch steps that have been threatening to give way all summer. He’s shirtless, sweat slick across his chest and shoulders, broad back flexing with every movement. The Mississippi sun glows off his bronze skin, the slope of his collarbone catching light like a blade.

He’s wearing coveralls, but the top half’s tied around his waist, hanging low on his hips, dirt smudged across the knees. A red rag’s tucked in the waistband. His boots are unlaced. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a thin streak of sawdust across his stomach.

Annie watches him from the kitchen window, one hip cocked, apron tied tight, her arms folded under her chest.

He don’t even know how good he look.

She turns back to the stove, stirring a pot of smothered pork chops. Collards simmer on the back burner, seasoned with smoked turkey neck and a little sassafras. Cornbread’s cooling on the counter. Sweet tea’s sweating in a glass jar near the sink.

She don’t say it out loud, but it feels good to take care of him like this. To feed a man who’s put so much fire in her and left so much ash in his own mouth.

And yet…

He ain’t hers all day. Not with what’s rising in Clarksdale.

Word travels fast in the Delta. Since Clifton “Cleve” Ray’s blood soaked the dirt behind the juke joint, Smoke and Stack been pulling in power like a high tide.

Bootleggers, gamblers, brothel owners—they all checking in with the twins now. Asking permission. Paying tribute. Some out of respect. Most out of fear.

Smoke’s been gone more and more—meetings in backrooms, shady deals behind barns, handshakes soaked in blood and whiskey. He leaves in the morning with a pistol tucked under his arm and comes back smelling like other men’s sweat and dirt and long silence. But every time he steps through that door and finds Annie barefoot in the kitchen, curls wild and her eyes watching like she sees straight through him?

He softens.

At least, for a while.

The screen door creaks. Smoke steps inside, shirt still off, rag now wiping his brow. He smells the food before he sees her.

Smoke spoke low and smiling, “You tryna feed me or fuck me?”

Annie didn’t look back as she spoke, “Both.”

She spoons gravy over his plate, still in her house dress, nothing under it but skin. Her thigh glints where the slit parts. The same garter he loves still wrapped high.

Smoke steps behind her, crowding her space. He pressed his body against hers, her backside against his crotch. He smelled like sweat and whatever his natural musk was.

“Goddamn, woman. You tryna kill me in my own home.”

“Just remindin’ you where you supposed to rest.”

He kisses her neck, lips hot and slow.

And Annie—despite her worries, despite the ache in her chest every time he’s gone too long—leans back into him and lets herself be held.

Because for now?

He’s home.

He’s hers.

And the rest of the world can wait.

The kitchen is thick with warmth—sweet tea sweating on the table, the smell of smothered pork chops hanging in the air like memory. The screen door still swings gently from where Smoke came in, carrying the heat of the Delta and something heavier on his shoulders.

He’s halfway through his plate when the silence between them grows too thick to ignore. Annie’s at the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel, but she’s watching him with that look—the one that sees through bone.

“Me and Stack…we settlin’ in. But this thing? It’s bigger than we thought.”

Annie turns, leans back against the counter, arms crossed beneath her breasts.

“You mean takin’ over after you two buried Cleve in the dirt like a dog?”

“He earned that dirt,” Smoke spoke with a gruff tone.

“Didn’t say he didn’t.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Just wonderin’ what y’all thought was gonna happen after you cut the head off the beast.”

Smoke sets his fork down, eyes low, jaw ticking.

“Didn’t expect it to go smooth. But now everybody sniffin’ ‘round. Out-of-towners. Folks that used to bow to Cleve tryna decide whether to bow to us—or test us.

“So now you gotta bark louder. Carry bigger guns. Sleep lighter.” Annie said.

“Stack’s tryin’ to build structure. Numbers. Runners. I’m handlin’ the ones that need handlin’.”

Another pause.

Smoke continued, “We ain’t just fillin’ Cleve’s shoes. We burnin’ ‘em and makin’ our own.”

Annie watches him a long moment.

“You makin’ money. Keepin’ your name in men’s mouths. That what you want?”

“I want control. So nobody ever gets to pull strings on us again. Not like Cleve did. Not like anybody did.”

Annie walks over slow, holding her hand out.

“Then give me that mojo bag.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He slips the worn leather mojo bag from around his neck and drops it in her palm like a weight he’s ready to surrender.

“It still holdin’?” Smoke questioned.

“It’s tired. Like you.”

She closes her fingers around it, and without another word, walks out of the room.

In the front room, the altar is quiet, glowing with low candlelight and the hush of old spirits. Annie kneels, legs folded beneath her, white cotton robe brushing the floor. She unwraps the mojo bag, empties it into her palm. Dirt from under their bed. His hair. A sliver of bone. A small square of red flannel tied with black thread.

She breathes in deep, lips barely moving.

“Keep him grounded. Keep him safe. Keep his mind sharp, his hands clean, his body whole. And keep him mine.”

Annie adds crushed bay leaf, fresh snips of his hair, a pinch of red pepper. She smears it with a dab of her oil—one she made herself, heavy with patchouli and iron filings.

She ties it back up, wraps it tight.

Smoke’s still at the table, shirtless, chewing slow. His eyes drift toward the front room. One hand rests on the table; the other rubs at the space where the charm used to hang.

He don’t like how it feels—being without it, even just for a while. He finishes his plate but doesn’t move, like his body knows she’ll be back before long.

Annie steps back into the kitchen, bare feet silent against the floorboards. She places the recharged mojo bag in his palm.

“Wear it. Keep it close.”

“I will.” Smoke spoke softly.

He slips it back over his head, lets it fall against his chest, skin to skin.

“You built yourself a kingdom outta Cleve’s ashes. But don’t forget—power can feed you or eat you whole.”

Smoke replied sincere, “I ain’t forgettin’. That’s why I come home to you.”

She brushes past him, and he watches her move—hips swaying under her cotton robe, soft strength in every step.

And in that moment, Smoke knows the truth:

He might rule outside these walls…

But inside this house?

Annie is the crown.

It’s deep in the night. The kind of stillness that feels pressed down by the weight of the Delta heat, everything hushed but the distant sound of cicadas and a soft drip of water from the bath.

Smoke steps into their bedroom, steam still clinging to his skin. The towel around his hips hangs low—too low—riding the line of temptation. His chest glistens, water beading along the hard lines of his torso. Wide shoulders, arms thick and veined, torso carved by work and war. There’s strength in him—but also softness in the belly, just above the dip of his navel, where Annie loves to press her lips. His skin is the color of dark bronze left out in the sun—rich, warm, and glimmering where droplets trail down from his collarbone to the dark hair on his chest. He’s toweling his head, slow and lazy, and he hasn’t even noticed her watching.

Annie sits at her vanity in a silk slip the color of cream. Her full thighs spill over the seat, legs crossed, coils wild and haloed around her face. Her eyes are locked on him through the mirror—hungry. She picks up a small bottle of oil she blended herself—infused with cinnamon bark, orange blossom, and a drop of sweet almond to keep it soft on the skin. It smells like fire and sugar.

She spoke softly, “Come here.”

Smoke lifts his head, towel slung over his shoulder now. A smirk plays across his mouth.

“What you plannin’, woman?”

“I’m plannin’ to oil what belongs to me,” Annie paused, eyes dragging up and down his body, “Before the streets take another piece of you.”

He doesn’t argue. He steps closer and stands before her like an offering—barefoot, tall, solid, heat rolling off his skin. Her eyes travel over him, slow. She uncaps the bottle, pours a little into her palm, rubs her hands together until they glisten.

Then she begins.

First, she oils his neck, thumbs pressing into the tension at the base of his skull, rubbing slow circles down the cords of muscle. His head tilts back with a low groan. Then his shoulders—broad and thick beneath her hands. She kneads deep, slow strokes gliding over scars and strength.

“Mmm…Lord…you tryna make me beg, baby?”

“Not yet.” She teased.

Annie moves to his chest, spreading oil across muscle and bone, letting her fingers linger at the rise of his pecs, the thick muscle beneath the soft that only she’s ever touched tender. Then his abdomen, slow strokes across the ripple and dip—her nails scrape lightly just above his hip, and he shudders. She turns him and does his back next—broad, strong, the kind of back that’s carried burdens and bodies. She takes her time, sliding her palms from his shoulders to the small of his spine, then down again, oiling every inch like he’s hers to preserve.

When she’s satisfied, she turns him around to face her.

“Sit down, baby.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. Legs wide. Breathing heavier now.

Annie kneels.

Her hands glide over his feet, ankles, shins, up to his thighs—slow and measured. She doesn’t rush. The towel’s barely hanging on now, the shape of him pressing full and heavy beneath it.

She rests her palms on his knees, then slips the towel aside.

He’s already hard—thick, long, dark, and pulsing.

Annie pours a little more oil into her palm. Then she wraps her hand around him—slow, smooth, twisting at the top with practiced ease.

She spoke low and filthy, “Look at you. So full. So hard. You been carryin’ all that weight out there in them streets, and still come home heavy for me.”

Smoke grits his teeth, jaw clenching, his thighs tensing under her.

“You know this dick don’t belong to nobody but me, right?”

Smoke growled, “Yes ma’am.”

She strokes him slow, base to tip, letting the oil glide as her other hand cups his balls, squeezing gently. Smoke groans, tilting back. His dick reminded Annie of a steel rod covered with flesh. The sensation of his veins, the girth stretching her fingers, the crown of his dick wide and purplish from arousal. Smoke teased her with his full lips.

“You kill men. You run Clarksdale. You sit on a throne made of fear and blood. But right now?” She squeezes tighter, speeds her stroke just a little, eyes locked on his face, “You just my good boy.”

Smoke moans—deep and hoarse, one hand bracing on the bedframe, the other sliding into her curls.

“Goddamn…Annie…”

“That’s right. Give it to me. Let me take it.”

Ain’t nobody gon’ hold you down like I do. Stroke this dick like I do,” Annie held him at the base and slapped his dick against the palm of her other hand.

“So heavy and thick…”

Annie lowered the straps to her slip and her heavy breasts spilled out. She slapped her cleavage with his tip. Smoke furrowed his brows and groaned.

She let go of him and watched how his dick pointed up on its own like a stick in the mud. Annie grabbed each heavy breast and circled his dick with both, gliding up and down. Smoke rocked his head back, revealing his neck that glistened from the oil. Each time her breasts would come down they would smack against his thighs.

“Fuck, just like that, baby, fuck…”

Annie continued titty-fucking him, licking her lips as he starts loft his hips to chase that feeling.

His tip would disappear and reappear and each time Annie would flick her tongue in his slit. Smoke fisted the quilt beneath him and flexed his thighs. He was about to fall apart under her big titties, hips jerking, breath ragged.

“Annie,” Smoke reaches down to grab both tits, releasing his dick, watching it bounce free, “Time to give me my pussy, girl. You done fucked ‘round and woke Papa up.”

Smoke didn’t give Annie a chance to stand up. He lifted her himself and yanked that slip the rest of the way down.

“Got me goin’ crazy since I been back in this damn house, shit,” Smoke circled behind her and double cuffed both her ass cheeks. That motion brought Annie on her tip toes as she tilted forward against the bed.

“This body don’t make no sense, woman…be having my Johnson achin’ for you.”

Annie loved when he spoke like that—filthy, desperate, greedy—it made her pussy wetter and her body more pliable.

“On ya’ knees. Open up.”

Annie stared at herself in the vanity mirror. Smoke caught her eye. She arched her back and when her ass pointed up Smoke drew back a wide open palm and whacked her so hard on both cheeks. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a sensual dance.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack

“Spankin’ this big ass good, huh?”

Annie leaned into the strikes. That sting had her pussy dripping.

Smoke was pointed straight out like a flag pole. He was ready. Annie scooted further to the edge. She knew to bring both arms up, hook them around Smoke’s neck with her hands cradled. Smoke dipped his hips. He lined himself up and then pushed up into her wet pussy with one stroke.

Annie moaned beautifully.

Smoke rest his hands on her love handles and stares straight ahead in that mirror.

Breasts hanging.

Belly sitting low.

Big thighs spread open.

Then his eyes fell to her back.

Spine arched.

Ass sitting wide.

He wasted no time banging her back in. Each stroke was like a tidal wave, slamming into her and creating ripples across her brown flesh. Smoke dug his fingers into her flesh and drove his dick in deep and shallow. Annie had this defeated, ‘fucked out’ look in her eyes.

Dick drunk.

Annie couldn’t hold on anymore. She let go of his neck and reached back for his hands. Smoke interlocked his fingers with hers and Annie fell forward, cheek hitting the quit.

“FUCK ME, PAPA!” Annie shouted with ecstasy.

Smoke did just that. Handling her good. Rough. Tender.

Had that bed rocking.

The quilt was warm beneath her hands, her breath ragged from the momentous heat. Her body is arched, hips tilted back, the soft weight of her breasts swaying with every thrust. Behind her, Smoke moves slow and deep, hands gripping her wide hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Her eyes flick up—and there it is.

The reflection.

Her full figure bathed in low lamp light, skin glowing and slick with sweat. Her ass bounces with every push of his hips, jiggling beneath the force, the garter belt still clinging to her thighs like a vice. Her back is arched into a perfect curve, spine dipping down to where they meet—where he’s buried deep, stretching her full, making her cry out in time with every roll of his hips.

His body gleams. Chest and stomach sheened with the oil she rubbed into him earlier. Muscles flexing under bronze skin, veins thick in his forearms. And his eyes—Lord, those eyes—locked on the mirror, locked on her, face smoldering, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his temple to her back.

“You feel that? How deep I am?” He spoke low with a gravel.

She moans, mouth parted, watching herself gasp. She looks beautiful like this—undone but powerful. Her hair wild, her lips trembling, her body being worshipped through motion and rhythm.

She spoke, breathless, “God, yes…You in my stomach, Elijah.”

He grunts, hips slapping harder now, the sound filthy, wet, possessed.

And all she can do is stare at the mirror, watching the way her body blooms around him, how good she looks being taken—owned—and how gone he looks inside her.

The mirror ain’t never lied.

It told her the truth—

She was made for this. And he was made to take her.

“Elijah, you thick in me, Papa!”

“You don’t want me to go, do you?”

“No!”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Where you want me to stay?”

“Deep in your pussy!”

“Why you like for me to fuck you like this? Say it.”

“‘Cause you deep and in my stomach, Papa!”

“You ready to cum?”

“Yessssssss—”

“Paint this dick!”

Annie stilled, body frozen with her release. Smoke kept stroking. Annie’s toes curled, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands fisted the quilt.

Smoke wasn’t far behind. Hisses spilled from his thick lips and repeated grunts bubbled in his throat.

Annie rolled her hips as she threw it back on his tip and his tip only. Smoke poked out his bottom lip and shut his eyes. His fingers twitched on her hips.

“You on my tip…Annie…fuuuck…I love this pussy…fuckin’ my tip good…Annie…fuck, woman…pussy wet…ughhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

And when he came, it was with her name in his mouth and his eyes locked on hers—like she’s the only altar he’s ever knelt before.

The room is quiet now—just the soft tick of the wall clock and their breathing, slowing in rhythm.

Smoke is still inside her, hips pressed flush to the curve of her ass, his chest blanketing her back. His arms are wrapped around her middle, hands splayed wide—one over her belly, the other slipping higher to rest just beneath her breast. Their bodies are slick, skin sticking slightly with sweat and oil. The scent of sex clings to the air, warm and heady.

Annie’s cheek rests against the quilt, her eyes half-lidded. Her lashes flutter. She’s boneless, breathless, lips parted in a soft moan that never fully left her throat.

Smoke spoke lowly behind her, “You still with me, baby?”

Annie hums. Doesn’t speak. Just presses her hips back into him the smallest bit, as if to say Don’t move. Stay.

And he does.

He nuzzles into her shoulder, lips brushing the skin right where neck meets collarbone.

“Ain’t never seen anything as pretty as the way you look when I’m inside you.”

There was a comfortable pause.

Smoke continued, “Like your body know me better than I know myself.”

His voice is thick, worn at the edges. Tender.

She shifts slightly, the motion pulling another soft gasp from both of them. Her voice comes out quiet but sure.

“You feel so good…still fillin’ me up.” Annie whispers.

“I ain’t ready to let go,” He tightens his grip, arms firm around her belly, anchoring her there, “We don’t get peace like this out there. World full of enemies, snakes, men grinnin’ while they plottin’. But right here? This the only place I trust to breathe.”

Annie closes her eyes. Her hand reaches back, fingertips brushing his thigh. A silent I hear you. I got you.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. Then another, softer. Slower.

Smoke whispers, “I wanna grow old with you, Annie.”

She lets that settle. Lets the ache in her legs remind her she’s alive. Lets his weight sink into her. And finally, she speaks—barely above a whisper.

“Then stop disappearin’.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll try.”

A pause between words settled.

“…God help me, I’ll try. I’ll try, baby.”

They stay like that for a while—joined, pressed together, her wrapped in his arms, him wrapped in her body, in her scent, in her strength.

And outside, the Delta wind shifts—but inside?

They are still.

Held.

The last lick of Sammie’s guitar echoed like a ghost in the rafters. The crowd erupted. Cheers and hoots and drunken applause filled the cabaret thick. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Another slapped the top of the upright piano hollering, “That’s the blues, boy! That’s the blues!” 

Delta Slim hollered behind Sammie, laughing so hard he almost fell off the bench. Sammie lowered his guitar, his chest rising fast with adrenaline and sweat. And joy. Real joy. To be seen, heard, and appreciated. His fingers tingled from the strings. 

And then…he saw her. 

Evangeline. 

Not far from the bar, standing between two other girls who clapped and hollered with the rest of the room. She wasn’t hiding now. Her chin was up, dress pressed just right against the lines of her body, dark curls pinned back with a silver clip. 

She waved. Shy-like. 

It hit Sammie like a second solo. 

He stepped off the stage and cut through the crowd toward her. Voices called at him as he passed—praises, back slaps, someone offering him a smoke and another a glass of rye, but Sammie barely heard them. 

“You came,” he said, voice still a little breathless. 

Evangeline folded her arms, pretending not to be impressed. “I did,” she said, slow and honeyed. “You gon’ get me and my girls a drink, Preacher Boy?” 

Sammie grinned. “‘Course.” 

Evangeline smiled back, pleased, then turned and ushered her girls toward the bar like royalty leading her court. 

They made their way through bodies pressed close, past a man in suspenders slow-dancing with a girl in nothing but beads and a feather boa, past women draped across velvet chairs with slits up their thighs and men watching from the shadows. 

“Pippy,” Sammie called once they reached the bar, “make them what you made me earlier.” 

Pippy—brown-skinned and quick-handed with a gold tooth in her grin—saluted him with a muddler already in motion. “Comin’ up, sugar.” 

The drinks slid across the bar, cold and fizzy with dark liquor and citrus. The girls giggled and sipped, their eyes wide at the debauchery happening all around them. 

“Lord,” one whisperered, “that man got his whole hand up her skirt.”

The other covered her mouth and said, “This place ain’t no juke joint. It’s a damn brothel!” 

Evangeline didn’t say a word. She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on Sammie’s profile. 

“You ain’t from around here,” she spoke eventually, her voice low enough for his ears only. “How you know the Smokestack Twins?” 

Sammie leaned on the bar, close. “They my cousins. Blood.” 

That caught her attention. Her gaze sharpened. 

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head. “You must be bad just like them, huh?” 

Sammie laughed. “Nah, I’m a college boy, not a gangster.” 

“That’s alright.” Her lips curled slow. “I like ‘em smart. Means you can talk to me while you in it.” 

Sammie blinked. Froze. Didn’t breathe. 

The sentence struck him dead-center.

Evangeline giggled, bold and pretty. Then, before he could recover, she reached for his wrist. 

“Put that guitar down, Preacher Boy,” she said, tugging gently. “Come dance with me.” 

Sammie set the guitar behind the bar and let her pull him through the crowd. The music was faster. Dirty and grinding. Bodies were pressed like sweat and sugar. Evangeline didn’t care that everyone was watching. She turned to face him, arms draped over his shoulders, hips moving in time with the bass. Sammie swallowed hard and let his hands rest at her waist. She smelled like night jasmine and pink peppermint. 

“I been watchin’ you since you stepped on stage,” she whispered, lips just at his ear. “Thought you was shy. But now?” Evangeline rolled her hips into his. “I think you just needed somebody to make you move.” 

The bass was thick as syrup, the snare drum snapping like a belt in the dark. A woman moaned on the record, low and drawn out. Evangeline’s hips circled in slow figure-eights, dragging Sammie into her gravity. She turned around without warning, her back pressing to his front like it had always belonged there. And then, she rolled her ass against him. 

Sammie’s hands froze mid-air, unsure where to stand. She didn’t give him time to figure it out. Evangeline dipped lower, grinding back with a smooth, steady push, the curves of her body dragging over the front of his slacks. She kept one hand lifted in the air, the other sliding down the slope of her own hip, guiding the movement like music was pouring through her fingers. 

Sammie inhaled hard through his nose. His eye were wide, palms sweating, heat galloping. He gripped her waist before he even knew he’d done it. 

That made her smile. 

Evangeline leaned her head back against his shoulder. Her voice was honeyed, the words teasing the shell of his ear. 

“Mmm,” she hummed, “you still sure you ain’t bad?” 

Sammie swallowed. “Not like them.”

“Then you might wanna let go of my hips,” she whispered, rotating even deeper against him, “cause you holdin’ me like you tryna get me pregnant.” 

Sammie damn near stopped breathing. 

Behind him, the crowd blurred into heat and howling. Somewhere to the left, a woman cackled as she poured moonshine down her chest for a man to lick. Over by the piano, Delta Slim was laid back with his mouth open, watching them with a lazy grin and one lifted brow like well damn. 

Evangeline kept winding. Kept moving slow, dragging her ass over Sammie’s growing hard-on like she meant to mold him right there on the floor. 

Sammie leaned in, lips barely brushing the curve of her neck. “You tryna get me in trouble?”

She smiled without looking back. “You already in it, Preacher Boy.” 

Then, she backed it up again but harder this time. Sammie groaned under his breath, low and shaken. 

“Damn.” 

Evangeline laughed, swaying her hips. “You cussin’ now?” 

“I’m thinkin’ ‘bout worse.” 

“That so?” She turned her head enough to meet his eyes. “Like what?” 

 Sammie answered with his hands gripping her tighter. The look in his eyes told him everything. Evangeline—sweet little thing in a Sunday-best silhouette and soul made of trouble—just kept on grinding. 

The blues got nasty. 

A woman’s voice crawled through the speakers, half growl, half sigh. 

🎶 He left me achin’, legs still wide…put his name where I used to cry…ooh, I ain’t never touched the floor since then… 🎶 

The crowd whooped. A man slapped the table and hollered. Someone popped a garter off a thigh and twirled it like a lasso. But Sammie Moore wasn’t paying attention to none of that. His world had narrowed to Evangeline. To the rhythm of her body. To the scent of her skin like shea butter and girlhood wrapped into one big naught bow. To the way she ground slow and deep, like every roll of her hips was a scripture only he was allowed to read. 

Sammie was hard now. There wasn’t no denying it. 

And Evangeline felt it. 

Pressed flush against her backside. And she didn’t shy from it or stiffen or pull away. She simply pushed back into it. Danced deeper. Dipped lower. Her ass dragged slow over the length of him like she was tracing her name into his lap. Her fingers reached behind to brush his thigh, soft and slick, like she wanted to feel how hard she was making him. Sammie clenched his jaw, sweat beaded at his temple. 

“You feelin’ okay back there, college boy?” She teased, voice coy.

“You gon’ kill me,” Sammie breathed.

Evangeline tilted her head just enough to look up at him, lips parted, lashes heavy, “then die real slow.” 

Her girl friends at the bar were too caught up to notice. One was perched on a man’s lap, laughing with her mouth open and a whiskey shot in her hand. The other was tucked into a booth corner, letting a smooth-talking Kat reed her peach slices from the peach cobbler Aunt Pearl and Minnie cooked up. Nobody was paying Evangeline any mind. 

And that was just how she liked it. 

Sammie’s hands started to roam a little. His palms slid from her waist to her hips, then back again. His fingers flexed against the curve of her lower belly like he wanted to hold the heat she was working into him. 

🎶 Told him baby slow down, let it burn…now I beg just to take my turn… 🎶 

“You ever been dry-humprd in front a crowd before?” 

Sammie choked a laugh. “No ma’am.” 

“Well…” she rolled again, this time extra slow, her ass fitting into his lap like a final puzzle piece. “You bein’ real polite about it.” 

Sammie growled. Actually growled. 

His hands gripped tighter. More bold. More needy. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, just breathing, trying to hold himself together. Trying not to rut against her like every man in the room wasn’t watching. But Evangeline? She ended him right on the fucking edge. Teeterin’. Drenched in sweat. She liked the way his fingers twitched every time she bent deeper. The way his voice got stuck in his throat. The way he kept whispering her name. 

“Evangeline…”

She turned around. Face to face with him now. Arms loose around his neck. Sammie’s lips were parted and his eyes were dark with desire. 

“You alright?” She asked, syrup-sweet.

Sammie nodded once. Then again. “Yeah. I just…”

He trailed off, breath catching as her hips gave one last grind, barely there, slow as molasses sliding down a glass. 

She smiled. “You thinkin’ ‘bout what I said earlier?” 

Sammie blinked. “W-What?”

“That you could talk me through.” Evangeline said, voice soft and teasing. 

Sammie’s throat bobbed. 

“I been listenin’,” she whispered, pulling him a fraction closer by the lapels of his jacket. “ her fingers brushed his. “I bet you could make me cry out without even fuckin’ me.” 

Sammie sucked in a breath so sharp it made his shoulders rise. 

Evangeline just smiled like the devil knew her name. 

Sammie’s heart was beatin’ like a snare drum. Fast. Irregular. Hot behind his ribs. Evangeline’s lips were so close to his he could count each lash hair. 

“You okay, Preacher Boy?” she whispered, tilting her chin up so her lips brushed his cheek.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

She hummed. “You don’t look fine.”

He didn’t. His jaw was tight. His hands had started trembling just a little. And his dick? Still stiff and pressed against her hip beggin’ for relief. Evangeline dragged one perfectly manicured finger down the middle of his chest, slow like a match being struck.

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she said, like she was asking him what time it was. Like it wasn’t laced with temptation. “Just to cool off. Ain’t tryna get you in trouble.”

“Cool off,” he repeated.

She nodded. Innocent smile. But her eyes? They were anything but.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Sammie hesitated. Swallowed hard. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

She turned, grabbed his hand, and started walking past the laughing girls at the bar, past Stack’s piano man and the clapping crowd, past the booth with folks too deep in their own pleasures to notice. And Sammie followed like a lamb led not to slaughter but to something just as dangerous. They moved through the hallway behind the bar, where the walls were painted burgundy and the air smelled like cedarwood and spilled liquor. One of the girls working the floor raised a brow as they passed and smirked, turning back to her client.

When they reached the back stairs, Evangeline paused, looking at him over her shoulder. “You sure you can behave, college boy?”

Sammie looked at her.

At those eyes.

At those lips.

At the slight shake of her shoulders as she laughed softly and took another step up.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

And that made her smile even wider.

“Good.”

She opened the doo and slipped inside.

The room she led him to wasn’t much, just a tucked-away dressing suite with soft lighting, a velvet chaise, and not enough ventilation. The window was cracked, letting in the humidity of the Delta night and the scent of magnolia from the trees outside. There was a mirror on one wall and a half-empty wine glass on the vanity, left behind by someone who wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Evangeline clicked the door shut behind them.

Sammie stood still. Back straight. Breath tight. Hands in fists like he didn’t trust ‘em. Like if he so much as blinked wrong, he’d ruin it all.

“C’mere,” she said.

He did.

She stepped close, right into his space. Slipped one hand up his chest. Took her time smoothing his collar down with her fingers, like she was just straightening him up. But it wasn’t that. She looked at him the whole time and when she reached the middle of his chest, she pressed her palm flat and said, “You nervous.”

“I ain’t,” he lied again, voice low.

She tilted her head, smiling like she didn’t believe a word.

“You been watchin’ me since I walked in.”

“Maybe.”

“You hard as a rock down there, preacher boy.”

He exhaled sharp through his nose, lips parting. Sammie didn’t deny it.

Evangeline leaned up slow and kissed him. Full on the lips like heat curling from a matchbook, low and steady. Sammie didn’t move at first, too stunned by the feel of her lips—warm, plush, with a hint of cherry gloss and something wilder underneath. But then his hands found her waist. And she moaned just a little into his mouth, and that cracked him wide open. Sammie kissed back with everything he’d been holding in since the moment he first saw her. Their mouths worked slow but deep, open-mouthed, breath mingling between them. He gripped her tighter at the waist, pulled her in flush and she melted, curling her fingers around his neck, her thigh slipping between his legs. Evangeline smiled when she felt him twitch before she broke the kiss and looked at him, her eyes half-lidded, lips wet, voice like honey over a flame.

“You gon’ let me touch you?”

Sammie nodded, throat thick.

“Words, preacher boy.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes…you can touch me.”

She kissed him again, but this time her hands roamed—curious, unhurried, exploring his chest through his shirt, then slipping lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of his trousers.

“You ever been touched by a girl like me?” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He swallowed. “No.”

Her hand moved over the bulge pressing desperate and heavy beneath his slacks. “You ever cum from just a hand?”

“Not like this.”

She grinned. “Then hush.”

And her hand dipped slow—no rush, no shame—just a girl and a boy in the dark, heat blooming between them, her fingers wrapping gentle around the part of him that throbbed with every pulse. She stroked him through the fabric.

Up. Down. Slow.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Evangeline leaned into his ear. “Breathe.”

And he did. Heavy. Wanting.

All for her.

Her hand moved slow, fingers easing over the outline of him like she was memorizing the shape and weight of it. Not stroking hard. Just…learning.

Sammie’s eyes fluttered open at her question.

“If you ain’t been touched like this…” Her voice was low, almost teasing. “That must mean you a virgin?”

His breath caught.

She didn’t say it loud. Didn’t laugh or pull back. Just let it hang there between them, soft and smoky. Sammie hesitated. His jaw tensed like he might lie again. But then her thumb brushed just beneath the head, right through the fabric, and he exhaled hard. Honest.

“Yeah.”

Evangeline blinked once, gaze searching his face. Then she smiled. Slow and pretty.

“Mm. That why you act so shy with me?”

“I ain’t shy wit’ you girl.” 

“No?”

“I just—” He paused, swallowed. “I just ain’t done this before.”

She leaned in, mouth brushing his. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

She kissed him again, more mouth than tongue. It was the kind of kiss that could teach a lesson without saying a word. His hands slid to her hips. Gripped like he didn’t want her to float away.

“You want me to stop?” she asked against his lips.

He shook his head. “Hell no.”

“Tell me what you want then.”

He opened his eyes—dark, wide, and vulnerable in a way that tugged at something low in her belly.

“I don’t know. Everything, baby.”

Evangeline grinned. “That’s alright. I do.”

She took his hand and slid it up under the hem of her dress. No panties. Warm skin. The swell of her thigh, the dip between.

His breath hitched.

“You wanna learn?” she whispered.

His voice was a rasp. “Yeah.”

She guided his fingers between her folds, helped him find that soft, wet place he’d only dreamed of. 

“That’s me,” she whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”

His fingers twitched.

“You feel how warm I am?” she asked.

He nodded, entranced.

Her hips rolled slow into his hand, showing him how she liked it, how to follow her rhythm.

“Don’t rush. Just feel me.”

And so he did.

Evangeline moaned low, soft and breathy, her forehead pressing to his. They stayed like that for a long while, hands exploring, lips brushing, breath mingling. Her hips moving gentle over his fingers, and his dick straining in his pants like it could feel everything she felt.

She nuzzled his jaw, whispering, “Preacher boy got his hands baptized tonight.”

And he let out a broken little laugh. Aroused. In awe.

“Say it,” she murmured, teasing his earlobe with her teeth. “Tell me this feel good.”

“It feel…real good. Better than my mama’s black eyed peas.” he breathed.

Evangeline smiled, then kissed his throat. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t done with you.”

Evangeline pulled away from him suddenly. She backed up a step, then turned and climbed onto the low table beside them, perching there like she knew exactly what she was doing. The hem of her dress slid higher as she settled, knees parting just enough to make Sammie’s breath stutter.

“You think they gon’ find us in here?” she asked, tone lazy, almost bored.

He swallowed. “No.”

She smiled at that.

Her hands went to her thighs, thumbs hooking the fabric, lifting it just enough to show him what she wanted him to imagine—dark curls and wet pussy. 

Sammie froze.

He’d never seen a woman offer herself like that. Not with confidence. Not with curiosity instead of fear.

Her legs opened wider. “Look,” she said softly.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile. She placed both feet up into the low table, causing her knees to spread wider. There was enough light shining in that room to see what she was offering up to him. A deep plum-colored pussy with lips that resembled a wishbone and a little button. Tight coils matted with her essence. 

“Here it is. All open for you. Look at it...it’s gettin’ wet just ‘cause you lookin’. I can feel myself achin’ for you. You see how it’s twitchin’? That’s ‘cause I want you inside me so bad I can hardly breathe. Come on, baby, touch it. See how soft it is…”

“Evangeline…”

She tilted her head. “You gon’ show me just what Preacher Boy been wantin’ since he saw me?”

He nodded, honest. “Fuck Yes.”

That pleased her.

She leaned back on her palms, unbothered, completely aware of the effect she was having.

“Good,” she said. “Means you still listenin’.”

His eyes dragged back up to her face, like he was afraid if he kept looking he’d lose himself completely. He saw the way she was offering herself to him. She looked confident and sultry and the sight of her pussy—pink, plump, and glistening with a dew that smelled like wild honey and musk—made his blood roar in his ears.

Without a word, he sank to his knees. The movement was like a man approaching an altar. Sammie wanted her to feel every second of the anticipation, to feel the heat radiating off his body as he settled between her legs. He gripped her thighs, his fingers calloused from strumming his guitar digging into her soft skin, anchoring her in place.

Then, he leaned in and pressed his face directly into her.

Evangeline let out a soft moan, her hips jerking upward. She hadn’t expected the suddenness of it. Sammie didn’t start with a kiss, he started with a long, slow lap of his tongue, starting from the very bottom of her opening and dragging it all the way up to her clit.

“Oh! Oh, shit!” she damn near cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "What you doin’? What you...oh, Preacher Boy!” 

Sammie was too busy tasting her. She tasted like the earth after a summer rain—sweet, salty, and intoxicating. He groaned deep in his throat, a primal sound that vibrated against her flesh, and then he dove back in. 

He began to eat her with a hunger that shocked her. He wasn't just licking, he was devouring that sweet pussy. He used his tongue like a muscle, swirling it in tight, heavy circles around her clit, pressing hard enough to make her vision blur. Then, he flicked his tongue rapidly, a rhythmic, drumming sensation that sent electric shocks straight to her belly.

The sounds filled the secluded space with a wet, sloppy noise of his tongue sliding over her drenched folds, the rhythmic slurp-slurp of him drinking her in, and the desperate, broken moans escaping her throat.

“You...you ain’t never...how you do that?” she sobbed, her head tossing from side to side. “It feel too good! Stop...no, don’t stop! Please, baby, don’t you dare stop!”

He responded by burying his face deeper, his nose pressing into her soft mound while his tongue pushed deep inside her, mimicking the motion of a dick. He sucked her clit right into his mouth, pulling on it with a firm, steady suction that made her back arch. 

“Lord have mercy!” she moaned, her voice cracking. “Y-You eatin’ me up! You eatin’ m-me right out my skin, baby! I can’t…I can’t take it! It's too much!”

Sammie came up for air enough to look her dead in the eyes with her pussy juice all over his face.

“You came here askin’ fa’ me to tear ya’ ass up now you can’t take it?” 

She stared down at him with a perplexed expression. Pussy pulsing in his face.

“Thought you was stronger than that Evangeline. This tongue too much, darlin’?” 

Evangeline released a shuttering breath “I—”

“Don’t talk. Just keep your legs open and get this pussy ate.” 

Sammie buried his face again, pushing Evangeline’s legs up by the backs of her thighs. She gasped and with nowhere to run she could only sit there with her legs spread open like the fast tail gal she is. 

Sammie could feel her pulsing against his lips, her pussy twitching and clamping down on his tongue in waves whenever he stuck his tongue in her. He didn’tlet up. He increased the pace, his tongue working with a disciplined, brutal precision, swirling and flicking, sucking and licking until she was nothing but a shaking mess of nerves. 

“Sammie, FUCK,” Evangeline melted against his mouth, staring down at the top of his head with blurry eyes. “W-Why you ain’t t-tell me you eat pussy l-like this?” 

He shoved her legs back in response. So far back her knees touched her shoulders. Evangeline whimpered, watching Sammie eat her pussy like he’d been out of a meal for days. He puckered his lips and kissed her lips, sealing his lips around her clit and giving it a nice wet kiss that forced her to beg. 

“Sammie, PLEASE—”

Sammie could taste the climax building in her, the flavor of her juices changing, becoming sharper and sweeter. He let out a muffled growl against her skin and gave one final, powerful suction on her clit, holding it there until she finally broke.

Evangeline let out a long, guttural moan, her thighs attempting to lock around his head and squeeze him tight as her orgasm ripped through her. She sobbed his name, her body shuddering in violent peaks, while he stayed right there, refusing to move, licking every last drop of her sweetness from her skin until she finally slumped back, breathless and ruined. It was as if the noise of The Blackline returned. Evangeline had to blink to focus. Remember where she was. 

Sammie lingered for a moment, his face still glistening with the sweetness of her, before he looked up at Evangeline. His eyes were dark, heavy with a hunger that hadn’t been fully sated just because she’d come. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that was greedy and desperate, tasting himself on her lips. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claim, his tongue pushing deep into her mouth, swirling against hers as if he wanted to swallow her whole.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, Sammie rested his forehead against hers. His voice was a low, rough rumble thick with lust.

“Tell me the truth, Eva,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Did I eat that pussy good? I mean...I was the only man to ever do it right for you, wasn’t I?”

Evangeline let out a soft, airy giggle, her chest heaving as she looked up at him with eyes that were wide and glazed. “Yes, Sammie...oh, yes you did.” She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling finger. “I swear, the minute my pussy came out, you turned into a different man. I ain’t know you had that kind of devilry in you.” She shifted beneath him, her legs still draped loosely over his shoulders, a playful, daring glint entering her eyes. “Maybe next time...your cousin could join in.”

Sammie froze, his expression shifting to one of pure perplexity. He pulled back just an inch, frowning. “My what?”

“Stack,” she whispered, the name sounding like a sin on her tongue. “I bet he’s the one who taught you how to eat pussy that good. He look like the type of man who knows exactly where to put his tongue.”

Sammie stiffened, the thought of sharing her—of having Stack’s eyes, lips, tongue on her wet, open folds—sent a jolt of possessiveness through him. He ain’t like the idea. Not one bit. He shifted his weight, his voice turning gruff.

“Stack?” Sammie scoffed, shaking his head. “Baby, Stack got a whole house full of women. He got more pussy than he know what to do with. Why you can’t just have me and be satisfied?”

Evangeline didn’t shrink back. Instead, she arched her back, pressing her chest toward him, her voice growing firm, laced with a newfound rebellion. 

“‘Cause I’m tired, Sammie,” she said, her voice ringing with a sudden clarity. “I’m a sheltered church girl. I done had folks tellin’ me how to sit, how to speak, and what I should and shouldn’t  be doin’ with my own body. I’m done with it.” She looked him dead in the eye, her gaze hungry and defiant. “If I wanna get my pussy ate by two men at once, I can. If I wanna get fucked blind by two men in some smoky back room after a dice game, I can. If I wanna get down to the nastiest, filthiest blues there is...then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Sammie stared at her for a long beat. The distant sound of a harmonica drifting through the walls. Slowly, a smirk spread across his face, and he let out a low, knowing chuckle.

“I hear you, Eva,” he said, his eyes softening with a shared understanding. “Lord knows I can relate. Bein’ the son of a preacher...I been pretendin’ I ain’t got a taste for the sin.”

Sammie’s expression hardened, a flash of that raw, possessive instinct crossing his face. He pinned Evangeline more firmly against the surface beneath her, his voice dropping an octave into a warning growl. 

“But you ain’t gettin’ your pussy ate by Stack. No,” Sammie stated firmly, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care how much of a rebel you feelin’ like. That part of you is off-limits to him.” 

Evangeline let out a melodic, teasing giggle, her chest heaving against his. She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief as she felt the heat of his body pressing into her. “My, my…my. You only known me a day and already you claiming this pussy?” 

Sammie didn’t blink. Eyes intense and blazing with desire. He leaned down, lips brushing against hers, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. 

“You tellin’ me it ain’t mine? ‘Cause the way you was shakin’ while I was down there…felt like you belonged to me.” 

The tension snapped like the string on a guitar and they crashed together again this kiss was different—less about hunger and more about ownership. It was deep, wet, and demanding, their tongues tangling in a fierce battle for dominance. Sammie’s hand slid down, gripping her hip with. Force that would surely leave a mark, pulling her flush against his hardness. 

Just as Sammie began to move his hand back toward her wet pussy, the heavy wooden door swung open with a loud thud against the wall. A man and a woman stumbled in, practically falling over one another. They were locked in a desperate embrace, the man’s hands shoved deep up the woman’s dress, her head thrown back with a loud, needy moan of pure ecstasy. They were so blinded by their own lust that they didn’t even notice Evangeline and Sammie in the room for the first few seconds, their breathing heavy and synchronized. 

Sammie broke the kiss, blinking and letting out a sharp exhale. He looked at the newcomers, then back at Evangeline, who was breathless and flushed. A small, amused smile played on Sammie’s lips. He started to pull his clothes back together, helping Evangeline to stand and smooth out her dress. They both started to laugh—a low, shared chuckle at the absurdity of the timing. 

“Seem like the spirit of the blues is movin’ through folks tonight.” Sammie whispered in her ear, giving her backside a firm, possessive smack as he guided her toward the exit. 

Evangeline giggled, leaning into him as they slipped out the door, leaving the other couple to their own private sanctuary of sin. 

The music hit harder than before, drum and bass slick with sweat. The blues curled around bodies too caught in the night to care who watched. The Blackline had grown louder, hotter. No longer as immersing but boiling over. 

Sammie reached for Evangeline’s hand again as they walked along the shadowed hall and back into the chaos of the main floor. Sammie was still warm from their moment tucked away. Evangeline couldn’t help but grin just thinkin’ about it. 

“C’mon,” she whispered, leaning toward him. “Introduce me to them cousins of yours. The infamous gangsters.” 

Sammie laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really wanna meet them?” 

Evangeline raised a single brow. “‘Course I do. Maybe they can share some wild stories about Preacher Boy.” 

Sammie shook his head. “This the wildest thing I done did, Eva. Less you wanna hear about how Stack teased me growin’ up. And Smoke keepin’ an eye on me like he my daddy instead of my cousin.” 

Sammie started to guide her across the floor, weaving past hips and heels and slick backs, past the perfume of lust and liquor. Just as they approached the far side of the room, Evangeline caught sight of something that made her steps slow. Her body went still mid-stride and her eyes narrowed. 

There, in the corner booth veiled by beaded strings and red lamplight, sat Sister Marigold Baptiste. First Lady of the church. Preacher’s Wife. Purity Teacher. Her Mentor. 

She didn’t just sit—she perched. Relaxed and glowing in a satin-black dress that clung to every curve like it had been poured on her. She was angled on Stack Moore’s lap, his hand stroking the bare skin of her thigh like it belonged to him. His mouth brushed her neck slow and greedy. Marigold tipped her head to the side, sipping from the glass he’d offered, her lips painted the color of garnet wine. 

She looked…decadent. Drunk on something far deeper than bourbon. 

Evangeline was frozen. She stared with a shocked gaze 

And then, so did Marigold. 

Their eyes locked across the room like a shot fired. 

In an instant, Marigold froze mid-sip. Her lashes fluttered, lips parted in surprise and guilt as the glass hovered just beneath her mouth. The booth around her blurred. She was no longer in The Blackline, not in her lover’s lap or on his tongue. She was standing back in that purity classroom, bam in the rows of wide-eyed girls, speaking of obedience, respectability,  restraint. 

Evangeline’s gaze sliced through her. 

Sammie leaned in, confused. “You okay?” 

Evangeline didn’t respond. Her smile had vanished. The flirt gone out of her hips. The phantom sensation of Sammie’s tongue vanished. 

Sammie followed her gaze. 

“Oh, that’s Marigold. Stack says she’s a Preacher’s wife. You know her?” 

“Excuse me,” Evangeline said, already moving. 

She slipped away before he could follow, cutting through the crowded room with a sharp elegance that only made the sting worse. As if an invisible camera followed her every move, she brushed past patrons with hurried movements until she disappeared down another hall that led to more rooms. 

From the booth, Marigold slid stiffly off of Stack’s lap. Her heat raced. 

“Where you goin’, Goldie?” Stack asked, voice slick with curiosity, the imprint of her body still on his leg. 

“Bathroom,” she said without looking back. 

Her heels clicked quick on the wooden floor, fast enough to betray the panic under her ribs. The red lights pulsed overhead like they knew her name, like they saw everything. Marigold eased toward the guest hall, the narrow corridor just past the end of the bar. Her eyes scanned every corner, every face. Evangeline was nowhere in sight. 

That was, until she felt a pull. It wasn’t physical but unmistakable. A sensation of being watched. Not by strangers but by truth itself. 

She turned a corner and there it was. 

A hand reached out from the shadows, caught her wrist, and dragged her inside a narrow passage near the bathroom door.

Beneath the noise were the sounds of the trade. A muffled scream of pleasure echoed from a doorway they passed, followed by the wet, slapping sound of skin hitting skin. A woman’s voice, strained and needy, called out a man's name, her voice breaking into a high-pitched keen that signaled a climax. The scent of musk and sex clung to the wallpaper, a constant reminder that in this house, every shadow held a secret and every room was a playground for the flesh.

And Sister Marigold Baptiste was standing in it. Standing in the one place she’d sworn was Satan’s playground. 

Evangeline let go of her wrist with a shove that was more insult than force.

For several long seconds neither of them spoke.

Marigold stared at the young woman she’d known since she was a child. She remembered scraped knees after church picnics. Braiding her hair before Christmas pageants. Holding her tiny hands during altar prayer.

Now those same hands rested on hips full of defiance.

Evangeline looked at her as though she’d never seen her before.

“No.”

The word came out as a laugh.

A bitter one.

“No…no, I don’t believe this.”

Marigold swallowed.

“Evangeline—”

“No.” Another laugh. “You don’t get to start with my name.”

Marigold searched her face. “I know what this looks like.”

“What it looks like?” Evangeline’s eyebrows lifted. “It looks exactly like what it is.”

Her eyes traveled slowly over Marigold. The satin-black dress. The glossy finger waves. The wine-dark lipstick. The diamonds catching every sliver of light.

“You look beautiful.” The compliment wasn’t kind. It was sharpened into a blade. “So beautiful I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Marigold instinctively folded an arm across herself. Because suddenly, it felt as though it exposed everything.

“Evangeline…”

“You told us.” Her voice cracked. “You stood in front of all us girls every Wednesday and told us women who came here sold pieces of themselves.”

Marigold closed her eyes.

“You told us this place was the Devil’s playground!!!” Another step. “You told us if we respected ourselves, we’d never walk through these doors!!!” Another. “You looked me in my face and said purity wasn’t just what we did. It was who we were!!!”

Each sentence struck harder than the last.

Marigold felt every one.

“I believed you.”

That hurt most. Because it was true.

Marigold’s lips trembled. “I…I did believe it.”

Evangeline laughed again. “Oh, I know you did.” She gestured back toward the crowded room. “Then I see you sittin’ on Stack’s lap.”

Marigold flinched.

“I see him holdin’ you like you belong there.” Another step. “I see you drinkin’ from his glass.” Another. “And the way he was lookin’ at you…” She shook her head. “He wasn’t lookin’ at the First Lady.” The words hung between them. “He was lookin’ at his woman.”

Marigold’s throat tightened. “I never meant—”

“You never meant what?”

“For this to happen.”

Evangeline barked a laugh. “Hell already done broke loose in the both of us.”

Marigold stared at her.

“You just too scared to admit yours.”

Marigold reached for her gently. “Evangeline…listen to me.”

“NO!!”

“I need you to.” Marigold’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. 

“No.” Her eyes watered. “You don’t get to tell me what I need anymore.”

Marigold’s hand slowly fell back to her side. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says you? Really? Who the fuck are you to tell me where I ain’t outta be?!” Evangeline scowled. “Wait until they hear about this. Their precious First Lady committing adulterous acts and drinking the devil’s juice and sittin’ on a pimp’s lap.” 

Marigold shook her head. “Evangeline please don’t say anything! Promise me you won’t—I—I can explain—”

“That you been feeding us lies to make up for your own sins? Tellin’ us about how we shouldn’t fall into temptation and defile the Lord so you feel less guilty?”

Marigold looked toward the doorway. “This place. It changes people.”

Evangeline followed her gaze before looking back. “It changed you.”

The sentence landed like a slap.

Marigold couldn’t deny it.

She couldn’t.

Not after everything. Not after Stack. Not after discovering desire inside herself. Not after choosing to return.

Evangeline’s eyes softened for only a heartbeat. Then they hardened again.

“You know what hurts?”

Marigold looked up.

“I wasn’t shocked you were here.” She paused. “I was shocked you looked…happy.”

Marigold’s breath caught.

“I ain’t never seen you smile like that.” A long silence followed. Evangeline’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Now I know.”

Marigold felt tears prick her eyes. “Evangeline…”

“No.” She shook her head once. “I don’t know whether to hate you…” Her voice broke. “…or feel sorry for you.” Evangeline leaned in closer, her breath warm against Marigold's cheek. “So tell me, Sister...when Stack burying his dick deep inside you...which part of the scripture you reciting then? Or do you just save the prayers for the mornings after?”

Marigold flinched, her composure finally fracturing. Her hand flew up to push Evangeline away, but it wasn’t a strong push, it was a desperate, trembling gesture. “Stop it! You don’t understand the pressures I face. The things I have to do to keep that place runnin’, to keep the girls safe—”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!!” Evangeline shouted, the sudden volume echoing in the small space. “Don’t you dare wrap your lust in a cloak of sacrifice. You ain’t doing this for the girls. You doin’ it because you love the taste of the sin you tell everyone else to fear. You a fraud, Marigold. A beautiful, polished, lying fraud. And I hope Naomi stay far away from you. She told me about what happened.” 

Marigold shut her eyes. “Eva, let me explain—”

“YOU LET HIM PUT HIS HANDS ON HER! You let him hurt your niece! How could you?!—”

“I DIDN’T KNOW! Okay?” Marigold cried. “I didn’t know Obadiah struck her! I didn’t know ‘till it was too late—”

“Oh please, shut the fuck up. Save your tears, Sister. You and that husband of yours wanna preach about who’s worthy of making it to heaven? Look at ya! First your sister, then Naomi—”

“She told you about Esther?” 

“How the church got her institutionalized? How she lost custody of Naomi? ‘Course she did. I’m more family to her than you ever was.” 

As if a switch flicked in Marigold’s brain, her eyes turned cold. Resentful. 

“You don’t get to stand there and talk about my family. You don’t know the first thing about family, Eva.”

“Just like you don’t get to stand in a classroom and tell me what I should do wit’ my body when you in here every night getting torn a new hole by Stack Moore? Really? Least my family fight for me. Can’t say the same for you. Daddy ain’t love you, momma had no backbone. Niece hate you. Sister too strung out on whatever meds they feedin’ her up in Pline Buff. Husband won’t touch you.” 

“Shut up—”

“I rather be a whore who knows she a whore than a saint who just a liar in a fancy dress,” Evangeline countered, her voice dropping back to that lethal, quiet hiss.

The slap that came from Marigold’s hand was a sharp, wet crack that cut right through the muffled roar of the band playing in the main room. Evangeline’s head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly blooming into a hot, stinging bruise. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the ringing in her ears and the heavy, ragged breath coming from Marigold.

Marigold’s hand was trembling, her fingers splayed as if she could still feel the impact of Evangeline’s skin. The “First Lady” looked fractured. The wine-dark lipstick that usually defined her poised, authoritative mouth was slightly smudged, and her eyes—those wide, soulful eyes that had once looked at Evangeline with such sisterly warmth—were now swimming in a mixture of rage and absolute devastation.

Evangeline stayed frozen, her face turned away, a slow, jagged smile spreading across her lips. She could taste a copper tang of blood where her tooth had nicked the inside of her cheek. The pain was a grounding wire, pulling her deeper into the spite that had been festering in her gut for years.

Slowly, Evangeline turned her head back. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss that barely carried over the sound of a trumpet.

“There she is,” Evangeline whispered, her eyes scanning Marigold’s satin-black dress, the way it clung to hips that had spent too many Sundays hidden beneath layers. "There’s the woman the church built. The one who knows exactly how to handle something she can’t control. A firm hand, right?” 

Marigold flinched as if she’d been struck. She stepped back, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor, her chest heaving under the black fabric. “I–Eva I’m so sorry—please forgive me.” Marigold closes her first. “I thought I…I thought if I taught you to follow the path—”

"The path to where, Marigold?! To a pew in a church where you can preach purity while your pussy drip for a man who sell girls by the hour?!” Evangeline stepped forward, invading Marigold’s space, her presence aggressive and suffocating. “Go ‘head! HIT ME AGAIN!” 

“Stop it!” Marigold cried, the sound breaking into a sob. She reached out, perhaps to push Evangeline away or perhaps to grab her, but her grip was weak, her fingers clutching at the air. “You don’t know the weight I carry. You don’t know what it’s like to hold a whole community together while you falling apart inside!!” 

“I know what it’s like to be lied to,” Evangeline countered, her voice hardening. She reached up, slowly wiping the blood from her lip with her thumb, then looked at the red stain with a cold curiosity. “I know what it’s like to watch you tell us girls—sweet, naive sisters—that our bodies were temples, while you were treatin’ yours like a public house. And Naomi...god, Marigold. You let that girl run because she saw the rot in you. She saw the hypocrisy before any of us did. She warned me to get out.”

Marigold’s face went slack. The fire vanished, replaced by a hollow, haunting grief. She looked small, the glossy finger waves and the expensive dress feeling like a costume that no longer fit. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself or perhaps to beg, but no sound came out.

Evangeline saw the break. She felt the victory, but it tasted like ash. She leaned closer, her breath warm against Marigold’s ear, her tone shifting from rage to a cruel, intimate tenderness.

“You can slap me until my face is blue, Marigold. But every time you close your eyes, and every time you feel Stack hands on you, you gon’ see me. You gon’ remember that I know exactly who you are.”

Evangeline pulled back, giving Marigold one last, assessing look from the polished toes of her shoes to the trembling line of her jaw. Without another word, Evangeline turned her back on the First Lady and walked toward the noise of the party, leaving Marigold standing alone, shaking in her black satin, the silence of the corridor heavier than any scream.

For the first time in years, Marigold Baptiste realized something she had never allowed herself to imagine. The girls had been watching her every bit as closely as she’d been watching them. The First Lady had fallen from the pedestal she’d spent half her life standing on.

Marigold allowed her tears to fall freely. She placed both palms against the porcelain basin to steady herself. Finally staring at her reflection, she barely recognized the woman staring back. Her finger waves were still immaculate, each glossy curve resting exactly where Cordelia had pinned it. Garnet lips framed a mouth that had spent the evening smiling in ways she never thought possible. Diamonds winked beneath the light every time her breathing hitched.

She looked beautiful. But she had never felt uglier.

Her chest rose sharply as she reached for the towel hanging beside the washstand and dabbed beneath her eyes before any more tears could ruin the careful work Peaches had done.

“You weren’t teachin’ purity…”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“You were teachin’ us how to become you.”

The words refused to leave.

She leaned forward, lowering her forehead until it nearly touched the mirror.

What had she become?

The question frightened her because she no longer knew whether it came from God…or from Obadiah.

A careful knock sounded against the door. Marigold straightened immediately, swallowing every ounce of grief she could force back down.

“I’m alright,” she called, though no one had asked.

The latch turned.

Stack eased inside, closing the door behind him quietly. He took one look at her, and that was all it took. His easy grin had disappeared. He stood within the doorway, not moving to rush or crowd her. The bourbon he’d been drinking was long forgotten. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his pressed trousers as he studied the woman before him. 

Marigold busied herself smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there.

“I’ll be out in just a minute.”

Stack remained silent, his eyes studying her. She reached up to fix one of the clips in her hair, though she didn’t need to because they were perfectly placed. Anything to keep her hands occupied. To keep from looking at him. 

“You ain’t gotta hide from me.” His voice was soft and gentle. 

That nearly undid her. 

She finally looked over.

“I’m not hiding.”

“No?” A small smile touched one corner of his mouth. “It must be somebody else standin’ in front of me then.”

Despite herself, the faintest breath of a laugh escaped her. It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

“I’m fine.”

Stack held her gaze.

He knew. She could see it. He knew she wasn’t.

He crossed the room until only a step separated them.

“You cryin’?”

“No.”

“You mad?”

“No.”

“You scared?”

Her answer caught. “…No.”

He nodded once. “Alright.”

That surprised her. He didn’t argue or press or tease. It was just…alright. 

Marigold blinked. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

“I already did.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t.”

Stack looked at her the way he always did, not searching for perfection, not measuring her against a standard she could never reach.

Only seeing her.

“I ain’t gon’ make you talk before you ready, baby.” 

Her shoulders sagged. Marigold expected interrogation. Correction. To defend herself. Instead…she’s been given room. That almost felt foreign to her. 

“I failed somebody tonight.”

The confession slipped free before she could stop it.

Stack’s expression softened. “You think so.”

“I know so.”

He let those words rest where they landed. He didn’t chastise her. Tell her she was wrong. Tell her she was right. He stepped closer and reached up, gently straightening one diamond earring that had shifted during the evening, his fingertips barely brushed her skin.

“You still wearin’ the whole world on your shoulders.”

She looked down. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“I know.” His thumb lingered beneath her chin just long enough to lift her eyes back to his. “But you don’t gotta carry it by yourself.”

The tears threatened again. She blinked them back with stubborn determination.

“If I tell you…”

“You don’t have to.”

“What if it changes the way you look at me?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. “Goldie.” He smiled then. Small. Certain. “I been lookin’ at you the same way since the first time you and them church biddies stood outside my do’ tellin’ me to repent.”

She smiled faint. Her lips quivered. She wanted to believe him. More than that…she wanted to believe herself worthy of it. Instead, she reached up and rested her hand over his just  for a second. Long enough to steady herself.

“I need another minute.”

“You got ten.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “I’ll keep ‘em from botherin’ you.” He turned toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back once more. “You come back when you ready.”

Then, he was gone, the latch clicking softly behind his retreating frame. 

Marigold released the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes once again. 

She never noticed the other pair of eyes watching from farther down the corridor. Hidden where the hallway bent into darkness, 

Mirabel remained perfectly still. Eavesdropping. 

She had seen Evangeline shove the First Lady against the wall.

Seen the slap.

Heard raised voices sharpened by hurt until they became impossible to untangle.

Now, she had watched Stack Moore walk into that bathroom after her. Watched him leave with tenderness written plainly across his face.

She stood there, hands folded neatly before her, committing every look, every silence, every secret to memory.

Some truths were far more useful…when nobody knew you were the one carrying them.

Evangeline stumbled a step, her senses reeling from the wreckage of her blow up with Marigold. As she stood there, the world she was born into. The one she was made to conform to. A world of starched collars, hushed prayers, and the suffocating expectation of purity. It all felt like a thin veil that had finally been ripped away. 

Around her, The Blackline was a riot of brown skin and perspiration. The blues weren’t just playing, they were vibrating through flesh and bone, a dirty, low-down moan of a saxophone that sounded like it was having an orgasm. Folks weren’t just dancin’. They was grindin’, hips locked, bodies sliding against one another with hungry friction. Evangeline saw a man with a wide grin and a gold tooth pull a woman’s skirt up to her waist, his large hand disappearing under the fabric to squeeze a heavy, rounded cheek with a possessive grip that made the woman throw her head back and howl with laughter. 

To her left, a card game was erupting. A man slammed his palm against the wooden table with a sound that cracked like a gunshot over the music, sending dice and coins scattering. The men around him weren’t fighting with hate but with a raw, boisterous energy, voices deep as they shouted insults and jokes that would have made a deacon faint. 

Then, there were the curtains. Heavy, velvet drapes that partitioned off small corners of the room. They ain’t hide much. Evangeline watched the silhouettes pressed against the fabric. The violent thrusting of a man’s hips. The arch of a woman’s back. The frantic movement of hands clutching at hair and skin. Wet, slapping noises, guttural moans, and the occasional sharp cry of pleasure that cut through the music. Blatant. Obscene. Honest.

The smell of the place wrapped around her. A heady, intoxicating cocktail of expensive pomade, pungent cigar smoke, and the mouth-watering scent of Aunt Pearl’s kitchen. Plates of fried catfish and collard greens piled high with smoked turkey were being passed around, the grease glistening on fingers and lips. Folks was eating with a primal intensity, laughing with their whole bodies, doubting over in fits of genuine, unburdened mirth. 

Evangeline felt strange, trembling sensation in her gut. Since she was a little girl, she’d been taught to walk the “right” path, a version of holiness that felt more like a cage every day. Been taught to look at people like this with pity. And to see Sister Marigold give into her hidden desires left her confused and angry. Looking at the raw, sweating, fucking, laughing chaos of The Blackline, she could see no judgement here. No one was pretending to be a saint while hiding a secret in the dark. The sin was out in the open, worn like a badge of honor, and in that openness, there was a terrifying, electric kind of peace. 

She watched a woman lean back in a chair, legs spread wide, laughing as she fed a piece of corn bread to a man who looked at her with pure, uncomplicated lust. 

This is it, Evangeline realized, the thought echoing in the hollow space where her faith used to be. This is what it looks like to actually be alive.

It wasn’t just a juke. Or a brothel. It was a sanctuary of the flesh. For the first time, the word ‘freedom’ didn’t feel like a Sunday school lesson. It felt like the heat of a stranger’s hand on a hip, the smell of grease and sex, and the courage to be exactly as broken and hungry as everyone else.

Sammie Moore stood near the edge of the stage with his guitar resting comfortably against his shoulder, still riding the rush of applause and his first taste of pussy that refused to leave his chest and his tongue. Every few seconds someone stopped him with a pat on the back. A handshake. A clap on his shoulder. 

“Damn, boy! You sure can play!” 

“You had Delta Slim grinnin’.” 

“That guitar talk back to you.” 

Sammie smiled through every compliment, thanked every stranger, but his eyes kept drifting over their shoulders. 

Searching. 

Soft-blue dress had been easy enough to find. 

But now…nothing.

Despite that, Sammie caught himself smiling anyway. She was probably making him wait on purpose. That seemed like something Evangeline Monroe would enjoy. Sammie finally excused himself and began weaving through the crowded room. Cards slapped against green felt. Dice bounced across polished wood. Women laughed and moaned with their heads thrown back. Someone carried two platters of fried catfish through the crowd while another hurried past balancing slices of sweet potato pie. 

Sammie circled once, then again. 

Still nothing.

His smile began to fade. 

Near the bar, he spotted the two young women who had arrived with her earlier. They stood shoulder to shoulder, wrapping light shawls around themselves while glancing nervously toward the front entrance. 

Sammie approached. “Evenin’ again, ladies.” 

The girls looked up. 

“Oh,” one of them said with relief. “Hi, Sammie.” 

“You seen Evangeline?” Sammie asked. 

“The girls exchanged a look. 

“We was just lookin’ for her ourselves.” 

“Thought she came back wit’ ya’ll.” Sammie said

“Naw. She wandered off after…somethin’.”

“After what?” Sammie questioned. 

“She shrugged. “Don’t know. She looked pretty upset. I tried to wave her over and she just kept on walkin’.” 

The second girl sighed, chewing the inside of her cheek. 

“We can’t stay much longer.” 

“Our mamas think we sleepin’ over at my auntie’s house. If we don’t get back ‘fore sunrise…” she winced. “Lord.” 

“The whole neighborhood gon’ know we snuck out.” The other friend said. 

Sammie glanced across the room again. “I’ll find her.” 

“You tell her we had to leave?” 

“We sure didn’t wanna but…we told Eva that we can’t stay too long.” 

“Our daddies…” one of them shook her head. “They’ll turn us black and blue if they find out.” 

Sammie cringed at that last part. But ultimately, he nodded his head with understanding.

“I’ll tell her. Ya’ll get home safe now.” 

The girls thanked him before hurrying toward the entrance, pulling their shawls tighter as one of the doormen quietly unlatched the door for them. For a second, Sammie simply stood there. He looked toward the stage. Toward the card tables. Toward Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl talking close. Toward the staircase where Violet stood, Smoke beside her puffing on a cigar like he was her watch dog. 

Still no Evangeline. 

Then, he saw her. 

Marigold.

She emerged from the hallway near the guest rooms, composed once more, though something about her expression seemed…heavier than before. Her lipstick had been touched up. Her shoulders were square. Only the faint puffiness under her eyes hinted that something heavy was on her mind. Sammie brightened immediately and walked toward her.

“Miss Marigold.” 

Marigold turned at the sound of her name. 

“I’m sorry to bother you.” 

“You aren’t a bother at all, Sammie.” 

Sammie glanced over his shoulder, still hoping to catch sight of dark-brown skin and a flirty grin. 

“I can’t seem to find Evangeline.” 

The name struck her like a pebble dropped into still water. Barely noticeable from the outside. Impossible to ignore beneath the surface. 

“Evangeline?”

“I done checked the dance floor. The bar. The stage. I ain’t checked none of the rooms down here but they seem to be occupied. Upstairs ain’t been checked. Her friend had to head home. They was lookin’ for her too.” 

Concern settled quietly across Marigold’s face. “When was the last time you saw her?” 

“A little while ago. We was supposed to meet back up.” Sammie rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile trying to return. “I reckon I might’ve got caught up wit’ folks tryna talk to me after I played.” 

Marigold looked across the crowded room. The celebration carried on without interruption. She could spot Stack laughing with Cornbread at the bar over a glass of bourbon. 

“I’ll help you.” 

Sammie’s shoulders relaxed. “You will?” 

“Of course. Evangeline is one of the youth at church. Her well bein’ is just as important to me as is to you, Sammie.” Marigold offered him a reassuring smile, though unease had already begun coiling inside her chest. “If she’s still here, we’ll find her.” 

Marigold grabbed Sammie by the hand as they stepped into the current of bodies moving through The Blackline. Sammie searched with hopeful eyes. Marigold searched with growing dread. Neither of them noticed that, across the room, someone else had quietly begun watching the search unfold. 

Someone only Liza June could see. 

Stack peeled himself away from the bar with the last swallow of bourbon still warm in his chest. His eyes drifted toward the hallway leading toward the bathrooms. 

Goldie should’ve been back by now. 

He frowned. 

As he crossed the floor, Peaches breezed past carrying a tray stacked with condoms and fresh drinks, hips rocking to the band without missing a step. 

“Peach.” 

She looked over one glistening shoulder. “Mhm?” 

“You see Goldie, tell her quit hidin’ from me and come on to my office.” 

Peaches smirked. “You done got needy.” 

“I been needy.” 

Peaches laughed. “I’ll tell her, baby. Maybe I should warn her you primmed and ready then, huh?” 

Stack shot her a lazy grin and kept walking. 

As he walked, the scent of fried catfish, greens, and fresh cornbread drifted from the kitchen. As he passed the swinging door, something caught the corner of his eye. Stack stopped and backed up. He pushed the kitchen door open just enough to peek inside. 

Delta Slim had Aunt Pearl backed against one of the prep tables, grinning from ear to ear while she cupped the old pianist’s face with both hands and kissed him like she’d been waiting all week to do it. Delta Slim chuckled into the kiss. Aunt Pear swatted his shoulder without ever pulling away. 

Stack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lord have mercy.” 

Neither of them heard him. Stack pushed the door shut with a quick thump. 

“Ain’t nobody wanna see all that.” His head shook as a laugh escaped him. “Two old folks actin’ like they sixteen.” 

Still smiling to himself, he adjusted his jacket and continued down the hallway toward his office, unaware that before the night was over, laughter would be the last easy thing anyone remembered. 

Stack’s polished shoes stopped dead on the worn floorboards. There was a girl huddled in the corner. She wasn’t just any stray, Stack recognized her to be the girl Sammie been checking for since he showed up in Little Rock. Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was still trying to fold herself smaller while her face told a different story. Split lip. Purple blooming under one eye. Marks that didn’t come from no fall. 

“You alright, sugar?” His voice came out low and careful. 

Evangeline dragged the heel of her hand across her wet cheeks, sniffling hard. “I’m fine. Just fine, Mr. Stack.” 

Stack stepped closer, the wall sconce from the hallway catching the damage. His jaw worked once. 

“Somebody put hands on you?” 

Evangeline remained silent. She looked past him like the wall might swallow her whole. 

“What’s your name?”

“Evangeline.” 

Stack studied her. “If you walk out them doors lookin’ like that, word gon’ travel faster than a rumor in a choir loft.” He said. “And if it gets back to your people that you was here…” he let the rest hang. They both knew what that meant.

“I’m not going back home.” She spoke, but it was so low Stack had to strain his ears to catch it. 

“Where my cousin at?” The question came out tight. Deep in his gut he knew Sammie wouldn’t raise a hand to a woman, he knew better than to do no shit like that. But the marks on her face made his fingers itch anyway. 

“I don’t know.” She whispered.

Stack exhaled through his nose and opened his office door, the hinges giving a soft groan. Warm lamplight spilled across a heavy desk cluttered with loose papers and an ashtray still smoking. 

He nodded inside. “Come on. ain’t nobody need to see you like this.” 

Evangeline hesitated, then stepped past him. Stack cracked the door behind them, cutting most of the noise from the hall. Stack stayed by the door a moment, watching her take in the room, her eyes darting over the velvet sofa, the half-empty bottle of whiskey, the coat rack heavy with his good jackets. 

“Go on, sit.” Stack said. “Ain’t gon’ bite.”

Evangeline lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, her fingers twisting in her lap. Stack crossed to the desk, poured himself a finger of whiskey into a glass, and took a sip. His gaze drifted back to that split lip. 

“You don’t gotta tell me what happened.” He said, after a beat. “But if somebody’s puttin’ hands in you, you best believe they gon’ answer for it.”

Evangeline’s wet eyes tracked him from head to toe before pulling away. 

Stack eased himself onto the edge of the heavy desk, one polished shoe braced against the floor, the other dangling. He watched her for a moment, finger tapping the glass, the wheels in his head turning. Hoping Sammie ain’t got nothing to do with her hurtin’. 

“Who hit you, Evangeline?” Stack’s voice stayed low, almost gentle. 

She kept her eyes on her lap, shoulders shaking, fresh tears sliding free. 

Stack let out a slow breath through his nose. He set his glass aside and pushed off the desk. The door to the back room creaked as he disappeared inside. When he came back, he carried a damp cloth and a small chunk of ice wrapped in it. He held it out without a word. 

Evangeline took it with trembling fingers and pressed the cold against her swollen cheek. Stack lowered himself onto the sofa beside her, close enough that the cushion dipped under his weight. 

“One of them boys out front?” he asked. “Say the word and I’ll handle it. Get you home safe, no questions asked.”

Her face crumpled again. The tears came harder, silent and hot. Stack reached over and laid his palm between her shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric of her dress. Stack just stayed there, unsure of what to do other than go out and ask around. Surely, if an altercation did occur, he would have known. 

“Did some man try and come on to you?” Stack asked. 

Evangeline sniffled, rubbing her eyes. Eyes that kept betraying her as they swept over Stack’s body. The feeling of his hand making her feel fuzzy. 

“Wasn’t nothin’ like that. I…”

“Funny thing ‘bout nothin’. It usually leave folks lookin’ like somethin’ happened.” His voice never rises. “You ain’t gotta explain it to me.” Another pause. “Just don’t sit here thinkin’ somebody got the right to leave their fingerprints on your life. Folks’ll have you believin’ love always come with a hard hand. I should know.” 

Evangeline crumbled. She leaned her head against Stack’s shoulder, her tears soaking into the silk of his shirt. 

“Shhh, hey now…it’s alright. Listen, why don’t I go look for Sammie. See if we can sort this out—”

Her hand slid down between his legs, fingers closing around the softened outline of his dick through the fabric of his trousers. Stack shot to his feet so fast the sofa scraped back an inch. 

“What the hell you doin’, girl?”

She stayed where she was, eyes puffy, lips trembling. “I always wanted to know what it was like to be with one of the Smokestack Twins. You been so kind to me, Mr. Stack.”

Her fingers went to the buttons of her dress. She started working them open.

Stack’s voice came sharp. “Keep that dress on.”

“What? You don’t wanna make me feel better?” 

Stack looked away. He swiped at his nose and then made his way to the door. “Not like this. I ain’t who you think I am. I’m many things but not this. Button that dress back up.” 

Evangleine laughed, a bitter little sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Since when does Stack Moore turn down some pussy?”

Stack was seeing red. He crossed the room in three strides and reached for the door, “I’m gettin’ Aunt Pearl to take you home—”

Before he could open the door it swung open. 

Sammie and Marigold stood right there in the hallway. Sammie’s eyes went straight to Evangeline’s open dress, skin showing beneath, the bruise on her face. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped.

Marigold stepped inside first. “What’s going on in here?”

Stack looked from Sammie, to Marigold, to Evangeline. 

“Found her outside my office banged up. Somebody hit her—”

“Evangeline, everything alright?” 

Sammie crossed the room to her. Evangeline stood abruptly, turning away to fix herself. 

“Eva—”

“STOP! I’m fine. I ain’t fuck your cousin, Sammie. If that’s what you worried about.” 

Sammie frowned. “You think that’s what I care ‘bout right now? Your face—”

“Ask Sister Marigold why my face look like this.” 

Stack and Sammie turned their eyes onto Marigold. 

“I struck her.” Marigold confessed. “I ain’t mean to—”

“You meant to. Just like you meant to ruin our lives. Wait till I tell everyone that you fuckin’ a pimp in a pussy house. That image you worked so hard for gon’ burn so bright everybody in Little Rock gon’ see it.” 

Evangeline stormed past Sammie and bumped Marigold’s shoulder. Sammie grabbed her wrist but Evangeline wiggled her arm out of his grip and stormed out of the office. He was on her heels like a bloodhound with a fresh scent. Stack and Marigold stood frozen for a moment before following them. 

“Eva! Come on, now. We can talk about this—”

“Stop following me, Sammie!” 

“Listen, whatever happened, we can help. You ain’t gotta go through this alone—”

She turned as though she meant to leave, but Sammie stepped into her path. He didn’t grab her this time. He simply stood there, concern plain in his eyes. 

“Talk to me.” 

Her laugh came again, full of pain. “Why?”

“‘Cause somethin’ happened.” 

“You don’t know what happened.”

“No. But I know you hurtin’.” 

The tenderness in his voice hurt worse than an accusation could have. Evangeline’s chin trembled before she caught it between her teeth. She wanted him to be foolish. She wanted him to flirt, to say something smooth, to give her an excuse to laugh at him and walk away. Instead, he looked at her like her tears mattered. 

“You don’t even know me.” She said.

Sammie lowered his voice. “Maybe not yet.” 

“There ain’t gon’ be no yet.” 

His brows furrowed. “What that mean?” 

“It mean you need to stop lookin’ at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m somethin’ sweet.” 

“You are.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know enough.” 

“No, you don’t.” Her voice sharpened, cutting through the music between them. “You met me on a sidewalk licking ice cream. You saw me in a pretty dress, let me dance on you, kissed me a little, sucked my pussy, now you think you know what kind of girl I am.” 

“I never said that.” 

“You ain’t have to, Sammie.” 

Sammie’s expression softened further, which only made her angrier. 

“Evangeline, I ain’t tryin’ to judge you.” 

“Everybody says that right before they do.” 

“I ain’t everybody—”

“You a preacher’s son.” 

“I ain’t my daddy—”

“You still got his Bible all through you!” 

The words struck him, though he tried not to show it.

“What would your daddy think if he found out you been licking pussy? You hangin’ ‘round The Smokestack twins? You performing blues music in a Juke full of the drunk and the frisky, huh? I’d get out while I still can. At least you got time for savin’.” Evangeline rubbed quickly beneath one eye. “Go enjoy your birthday. They threw this whole night for you. Got women in there that know exactly what you want and how to give it to you.” 

“I was lookin’ for you.” 

“Well, stop.” 

Sammie went still. Evangeline drew a breath that trembled all the way down.

“I got somebody anyway.” 

Sammie’s face changed. Only slightly. A tiny glimpse behind his eyes. 

“You got a man?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Sammie searched her expression, perhaps waiting for the teasing curl of her lips or a wink that would reveal the game. None came. Evangeline forced herself to hold his gaze until the lie settled between them.

“Why you ain’t say that before?” 

Evangeline scoffed. “I ain’t owe you my whole life story.”

“I know…”

“Then quit askin’.”

Sammie nodded slowly. “Alright.” 

His acceptance should have brought relief. Instead, it left her feeling hollow. Evangeline looked at him properly thenz at the college pin on his lapel. At the faint sheen of perspiration resting along his temple. At the gentle hands that had gripped her waist and pinned her legs in that dressing room. He had looked at her as though she were worth discovering. That was precisely why she had to push harder. 

“Go find you somebody more suitable.” She said. “Some good little college girl. Some little church girl from back home. A girl who writes letter and sit quiet while you play. Somebody worth your time.”

Sammie’s brows drew together. “Why you talkin’ like you ain’t?” 

She looked away.

“Evangeline—”

“Just leave me alone, Sammie.” 

He could hear the plea beneath the anger. He could also hear his father’s voice from years ago, insisting that women needed correction when their emotions carried them too far. Jedediah would have followed. Cornered. Demanded answers until there was no room left for anything but obedience. 

Sammie would not become that man. 

Evangeline stepped around him and headed toward the front of the room. 

Sammie turned after her. For one breath, he followed. One step carried him into the stream of dancers before he stopped himself. She had asked him to leave her alone. Whatever had transpired between her and Marigold, she didn’t want him beside her while she carried it. 

“Preacher Boy!”

A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. Someone called for another song. Delta Slom lifted both hands from the piano and shouted that the birthday boy owed the room one more number. Sammie glanced back at them, then toward Evangeline. She had already disappeared among the bodies. He stood there another second, torn between instinct and respect, before lowering his head. 

She needed time.

He would find her later.

The office door had scarcely stopped rattling from Sammie and Evangeline’s hurried exit before things settled uneasy. Marigold stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the open doorway as though Evangeline might suddenly appear again. 

“I struck her.” Her confession came with shame. “So hard.” Her voice wavered. “I have never laid my hands on one of my girls.” 

Stack remained where he was beside his desk. He said nothing. 

Marigold laughed once, though it carried no humor. “I looked at her…” she swallowed. “…and all I could see was myself.” She pressed trembling fingers against her lips. “I became exactly what she accused me of.”

Stack watched her for another moment before speaking. 

“No.” 

She lifted weary eyes toward him. 

“You became somebody who lost hold of herself.” 

The distinction did little to comfort her. A fresh wave of shame crossed her face. Then, another thought entered. 

“What if she tells? What if she tells everybody?” Marigold whispered. “The congregation…my husband…those girls…” she shook her head. “My whole life…”

Stack’s answer came without hesitation. “Then she tells.” 

Marigold stared at him as though he’d struck her himself.

“That’s all you got to say?” 

“What else you want me to say?” Stack tilted his head. 

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand just fine.” 

“No. You don’t. They’ll talk.” 

“They might—”

“They’ll rip me apart.” 

“They might.” 

“My girls won’t listen to another word I say—”

“Maybe.” 

Each answer landed heavier than the last. Frustration finally overtook her. 

“You don’t care.” 

Stack’s brow lifted. 

“You think this some kind of joke.”

“I think it’s the truth.”

Marigold shut her eyes. “I could lose everything.” 

“You already losin’ it, Goldie.” 

She blinked. “What?” 

“You hate hearin’ the truth.”

“I do not—”

“You do.” His voice never rose. “You hate any truth that asks somethin’ of you.” 

Marigold shook her head fiercely. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Stack.” 

“I know exactly what I’m talking’ ‘bout.” He took one measured step toward her. “You spend time worryin’ ‘bout what everybody else think, you ain’t ask yourself what you think in a long while.” 

Marigold felt the walls closing in. 

“I need to go.” 

She turned for the door. Before her fingers reached the knob, Stack crossed the room. He opened the door first, glanced into the hallway, then quietly shut it again.

The lock clicked into place.

Marigold stared. “What are you doin’?”

He motioned toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

“I said I need to leave.”

“I heard you.”

“Move.”

“No.”

She searched his face, waiting for the arrogance she had come to expect from men who gave orders. It wasn’t there.

Only patience.

Only resolve.

Her shoulders sagged. The fight left them. Slowly, she lowered herself into the chair. Stack remained standing for a long moment before finally asking the question that had lived behind his eyes for weeks.

“Why you still with him?”

Marigold looked down at her hands.

No answer came.

He asked another. “Why you still tied to that church?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Words that had once come so easily refused to appear.

Duty. Marriage. Calling. Obedience.

Each felt thinner than the last.

Stack watched the realization cross her face.

“You keep tellin’ me what you scared of losin’.” He leaned against the edge of his desk. “Tell me one thing over there that’s still holdin’ on to you.”

Marigold searched for it. For something. Anything.

Obadiah. No. Her marriage. No. The church building. No. Her title. No. Only faces came. The young women. Bible lessons. Hospital visits. Meals delivered to grieving families.

Evangeline.

The thought struck so sharply she rose from the chair.

“I can’t do this.”

She hurried to the door and unlocked it before Stack could stop her. The knob turned. She stepped into the hallway. Behind her came his voice, carrying just enough amusement to make her stop for the briefest second.

“Runnin’ again?”

She closed her eyes.

“Thought we was past that.”

Marigold looked back over her shoulder. The glare she gave him carried exhaustion more than anger. Then, she walked away. She moved quickly through the back corridors until the music softened behind thick walls. The warmth of the kitchen met her first. Pots soaked in wash tubs. The smell of cornbread still lingered in the air. Alma Rose stood at one sink with her sleeves rolled high, drying heavy platters while Aunt Pearl wiped down one of the long preparation tables, humming softly beneath her breath. Both women looked up together. One glance was all Aunt Pearl needed.

“What happened?”

Marigold tried to answer but nothing came. She lowered her eyes instead.

After a long silence, she managed quietly, “Aunt Pearl…”

The older woman set the rag aside. “Mm-hmm?”

“Would you…” Her voice nearly broke. “…would you mind drivin’ me home?”

Concern settled across Aunt Pearl’s face, but she asked no questions.

“Course I will.” She untied her apron and handed it to Alma Rose. “You finish up in here for me, baby.”

Alma Rose nodded. “I got it.”

Marigold waited near the back door while Aunt Pearl gathered her things.

Just as Aunt Pearl reached for her coat…

The church bell rang.

One slow toll.

Its sound rolled through the kitchen walls and settled over every pot, every plate, every tired pair of hands. Even Alma Rose’s rag stilled against the china. Marigold felt the sound settle somewhere deep inside her chest. Aunt Pearl quietly slipped her coat over her shoulders.

“Come on, baby.”

Marigold nodded.

Neither woman spoke as they stepped out into the Arkansas night.

Behind them, The Blackline laughed.

Across the street, the bell rang again.

The Rise of First Blood

Evangeline moved without purpose through The Blackline, letting the crowd swallow her. She passed couples with their foreheads pressed together, women laughing over cards, men losing money with good humor and ordering another round. The room that had seemed scandalous when she first entered now looked different through the sting of her tears.

She saw a young woman sitting beside the stage with her face buried against Peaches’ shoulder. Peaches did not tell her to straighten up. She did not tell her that tears invited weakness or that grief could be prayed away. She stroked the woman’s back and listened while she cried, her full attention offered without correction.

Near the bar, a patron reached for one of the dancers. The woman caught his wrist, shook her head, and continued past him. He lifted both palms, accepted the refusal, and turned back to his drink. No one dragged her aside. No one asked what kind of woman denied a man after accepting his attention. At a nearby table, Aunt Pearl set down a plate in front of a girl who had been too busy working to eat. She fussed over her until the girl took the first bite, then walked away satisfied. The Blackline contained vice. Evangeline could see it clearly. Liquor poured faster than water. Clothes fell open. Money passed between hands for pleasures no church woman would name aloud. Yet beneath all of it lived something she had not expected to find.

Choice.

The realization disturbed her more than the obscenity. Marigold’s face returned to her. Garnet lips. Black satin. Her body settled on Stack Moore’s lap while he kissed her neck and whispered filth no doubt. The look of shock on her face when she’d locked eyes with her. The woman who had once warned Evangeline that wickedness entered through open doors had looked more alive in that booth than she ever had standing beside Obadiah. 

Evangeline hated her for it. She envied her for it too. That truth was harder to bear.

She drifted closer to the entrance, wrapping her arms around herself. The mark on her cheek and the split in her lip had begun to ache now that the adrenaline has settled. Everything she had said to Marigold returned in jagged pieces, crueler now that the anger had faded. She remembered Marigold’s face after the slap, the horror and regret that followed it. 

She had wanted the First Lady to hurt. 

And she had succeeded. 

It had not made anything better. 

Across the room, tucked behind a veiled alcove, Liza June sat with her cards gathered loosely in both hands. She had stopped reading them some time ago. Lana had wandered away to tend to a John, leaving her alone with the spread and the company no one else could see. 

Louisa Fields, one of the spirits, had remained near the piano after Sammie finished playing. The Harris twins had stood together beside an empty booth, their fingers linked. Clarene Bell watched the stage with a longing that had survived her body. Larissa Boone lingered near the wall, stern and watchful. Cressida Weatherford stood closest to Marigold as she surfaced without Stack, her weathered hands held near her sides. 

Then, Louisa turned toward the front door. 

The Harris twins followed.

Clarene lowered her head and went after them. 

Larissa crossed the room with the grave composure of a woman answering a summons.

Liza June straightened. 

The spirits did not disappear. They moved through the living crowd, passing between dancers and tables without disturbing cloth or flesh. Every one of them traveled in the same direction. 

Her cards tightened between her fingers.

“Where ya’ll goin’?”

None turned.

One card slipped free and landed face up on the table. 

Death. 

Liza stared at it. 

Ordinarily, she would have scolded anyone foolish enough to fear the card. Death did not always mean a grave. It could mean change, release, one life ending so another might begin. Tonight, the image looked different. 

Cressida remained behind for one final heartbeat. Her eyes found Marigold across the room. The First Lady was scanning the crowd beside Sammie now. Both of them searching for someone they could no longer see. Then, Cressida looked toward Liza.

No chant came this time. No words formed inside her mind. The old woman simply closed her eyes. 

Grief moved across her face before she turned and followed the others. 

Liza’s stomach tightened. She didn’t rise or follow. She remained perfectly still while the dead passed through the front door. 

Evangeline reached it moments later. 

The doorman recognized her from when she came in and tipped his hat. “Headin’ out, Miss?”

“Just need some air.” 

“Friends left some time ago.” 

Evangeline glanced back into the room. Her girls had gone. She figured as much. They were past their curfew. She spotted Sammie with his guitar, forcing a smile on his face. Evangeline nearly called his name. The thought rose to her lips. Then, Pride swallowed it. 

“Actually, I think I’m a head home. Thanks anyway.” 

The doorman opened the door. “Have a good evening.” 

Music poured into the night around her, bright and lively for a few seconds before the heavy door closed and reduced it to a muffled pulse behind brick. West Ninth had thinned considerably. Storefronts sat dark behind their glasses. Stratton’s three pale circles across the pavement, leaving stretches of shadow between them. The August heat had not broken, though the night breeze cooled the tears drying on Evangeline’s face. Across the narrow lane stood Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance. It’s white exterior looked gray beneath the moon. The iron fence bordered rows of lilies that appeared colorless at this hour. High above the street, the bell tower cut into the skit like a raised finger demanding silence. 

Evangeline turned away from it. 

She walked slowly, without any true destination. She didn’t want to go back home. To face her mother’s judgment or her father’s hand. She only wanted distance form Marigold, from Sammie’s kindness, from the music that had reached into her chest and stirred feelings she was not prepared to name. 

Behind her, the dead emerged through The Blackline’s closed door. 

Louisa came first, small and barefoot, ribcage visible above her nightgown; malnourished. The Harris twins walked behind her, still holding hands, translucent and water-soaked, dripping constantly, leaving puddles wherever they moved. They still wore the same swollen, bluish features with their hair plastered their face and clothing clinging like wet rags. Clarene had bruising around her neck and walked with a wobble. Larissa carried a medicinal scent mixed with the old communion wine sweetness. Other spirits joined them, spirits tied to the patrons, the musicians, the kitchens and the old streets beneath Little Rock. Faces from lives already lived. Shapes belonging to years not yet born. 

Cressida came last. 

The formed a silent procession several paces behind her, keeping pace as she crossed beyond the strongest reach of The Blackline’s lights. Evangeline felt the change without understanding it. The fine hairs along her arms lifted. She glanced over one shoulder. 

The street appeared empty. 

She rubbed her palms over her sleeves and kept walking. The music weakened with each step Evangeline took until that world became no more than a distant rhythm carried through the night. 

Evangeline paused beside the church fence. 

A lily had fallen onto the pavement. She nudged it with the toe of her shoe, then looked toward the road leading home. 

“Miss Monroe.” 

The voice came from behind her. 

Evangleine turned.

Deacon Josiah Wells stood beneath the nearest streetlamp. She had known him most of her life. He had carried her on his shoulders during church picnics when she was small and slipped peppermint candies into her palm after services. Tonight he wore a dark suit buttoned to the throat, his hat held respectfully against his chest.

The tension left her shoulders.

“Deacon Wells.”

“Your mama and daddy been worried.”

Her gaze dropped. “They know I’m gone?”

“They know enough.”

“I was fixin’ to head home.”

“I figured as much.” He gave her the same patient smile she remembered from childhood. “Come on, then. I’ll see you there safe.”

Evangeline glanced toward The Blackline. She thought of Sammie. She thought of going back inside and telling him the truth, at least enough of it to apologize. Then, she pictured her father waiting at home.

“I can walk.”

“At this hour?” Deacon Wells chuckled softly. “Your daddy would have my hide if I let his girl cross town alone.”

The words sounded reasonable. Familiar.

She stepped toward him.

The spirits stopped.

Every one of them.

Louisa’s face tightened with fear. The Harris twins drew closer together. Clarene opened her mouth though no sound passed through it. Larissa reached for Evangeline and met only distance.

Cressida raised both hands. The hands that had delivered children, closed wounds, calmed fevers and helped women survive the touch of cruel men.

They could do nothing now.

Evangeline had nearly reached Deacon Wells when another man stepped from the deeper shadow beside the church steps. Then, a third appeared near the gate.

Her pace slowed. “Who they?”

Wells’ smile remained, though all warmth had left it.

“Church business.”

“At this time of night?”

“You been keepin’ late hours yourself.”

Something in his voice changed her breathing.

Evangeline stepped backward.

Wells reached for her arm.

She jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

The men moved at once.

One caught her from behind. A broad hand covered her mouth before she could scream. She kicked backward, heel striking bone, and heard someone curse. Her teeth closed against the palm over her lips.

“Hold her.”

Evangeline twisted hard enough to tear one sleeve at the shoulder. She clawed at the arm trapping her, eyes fixed on The Blackline’s entrance only yards away.

The music continued behind the walls. She tried to call Sammie. Only a broken sound escaped beneath the man’s hand.

Deacon Wells seized her legs as the others lifted her from the pavement. Her eyes widened. Not with confusion anymore.

With recognition.

The spirits crowded around them, reaching, grieving, powerless. Cressida stood closest, her hands pressed against Evangeline’s face without being felt.

The girl fought until a dark cloth was forced over her nose and mouth.

The church bell tolled once.

Evangeline’s body went slack.

The men carried her through the iron gate. Behind them, the fallen lily lay crushed against the pavement. And across the lane, The Blackline kept singing.

Morning came. It slowly settled over the carriage house behind The Blackline. Thin ribbons of sunlight caught lazy flecks of dust that drifted through the warm air. The fragrance of old cedar, worn leather, hay, faint traces of manure, and machine oil. An empty wagon leaned against one wall beside stacked feed crates and coiled harnesses that hadn’t seen a horse in years. 

Beyond the open doors crowded with overgrown grass, life had already begun again. Minnie laughed and cooed in the kitchen. A pan clanged against a stove, probably Aunt Pearl frying up some bacon fat fritters. Delta Skim tested a few wandering notes on the piano before deciding against a tune to play tonight. Cornbread was snoring in one of the guest rooms, causing some of the girls to groan about missed sleep because of a grisly bear. The little white kitten, Trouble, darted across the courtyard chasing something only he could see. 

The world had moved on accordingly.

Sammie had not. 

He sat alone on an overturned crate with his guitar resting across his lap. It had once belonged to Smoke and Stack’s father before the brothers placed it in Sammie’s hands years later, telling him every instrument deserved another voice. 

This morning it felt heavier than usual. His fingers wandered over the strings, searching for something familiar. A blues progression found its way beneath his fingertips before faltering halfway through. He tried again. Stopped again. But nothing sounded right. Sammie’s thoughts refused to stay on the music. Instead, they drifted back to the night before. 

Evangeline laughing. Evangeline dancing. The sharp wit behind every smile she sent his way. Then…her face after everything had unraveled. The bruise. It wasn’t the mark itself, or that Marigold had struck her. It was the way she reacted. She hadn’t looked surprised. She didn’t seem to care that she’d been hit in retaliation. She looked…ready. As though somewhere in her life she’d already learned what it meant to brace herself before a hand came. 

That was the part Sammie couldn’t shake. 

He drew a slow breath and rested both hands across the guitar. He allowed himself to be swallowed by silence before it was broken by footsteps crunching across the gravel outside. 

“They teach y’all that at college?”

Sammie looked up.

Stack leaned against the doorway with a steaming mug balanced in one hand. His hat had been traded for a neatly combed head of conked hair, his suit coat abandoned somewhere inside. Suspenders crossed a white shirt rolled neatly to his forearms. But the gold on his fingers and around his neck never left him. He was Elias Moore after all.

Stack nodded toward the guitar. “Or you tryin’ punish that poor thing?”

A corner of Sammie’s mouth lifted despite himself.

“I ain’t punishin’ it.”

“Mmm.”

Stack wandered inside without waiting for permission and lowered himself onto a crate beside him. He took a sip of his chicory coffee mixed with a little melted chocolate. He looked out through the open carriage doors, his eyes tracking Trouble trying to catch dragonflies. They simply breathed beside each other, Stack taking sips of his coffee and Sammie plucking the strings with his thumb. Stack had always known when silence needed company more than conversation. After a while he nudged Sammie’s shoulder.

“She got you all tangled up already?”

Sammie gave a quiet scoff. “Ain’t like that.”

“If you say so, lil’ nigga.” 

“It ain’t.”

Stack smiled into his coffee but let the denial pass. Another stretch of quiet settled between them. Finally, Sammie spoke.

“I keep thinkin’ about her.”

“The girl?”

Sammie nodded. “I keep seein’ that look on her face. The way she…” His voice lowered. “She looked…broken.” He swallowed. “Not because of Marigold.”

Stack turned his head. “What you mean?”

Sammie stared down at the strings. “I don’t know.” He searched for the words. “Sum’ just ain’t right.” 

Stack didn’t rush to answer. He simply listened.

Sammie let out a tired breath. “I don’t know. Just…it bothered me.”

“It ought to.”

Sammie looked over.

Stack rested his elbows on his knees, turning the coffee mug slowly between his palms.

“World got a habit of puttin’ too much on folks before they old enough to carry it.” He looked toward the bright morning outside. “Sometimes somebody cross your path and all they leave you with is a question.”

Sammie frowned. “What kinda question?”

Stack’s gaze stayed fixed ahead. “The kind you spend years answerin’.”

The words lingered between them.

Sammie looked back down at the guitar.

“You ever have somebody just…” He hesitated. “…walk out your life before you figured ’em out?”

Stack chuckled softly. “More than once.”

There was something unreadable behind the smile that followed. Before Sammie could ask anything else, Stack clapped both hands against his knees and stood.

“That’s enough of this.”

“What?”

“You.” Stack pointed at him. “You in your big cousin’s house actin’ like somebody done stole Christmas.”

Sammie laughed. A real laugh this time, though it still carried a trace of weariness.

“I ain’t actin’.”

“You absolutely actin’.”

Stack reached over and caught him in a loose headlock, rubbing the top of his head with his knuckles until Sammie pushed him away.

“Man, quit.”

“There he is.” Stack grinned. “I knew you was still in there somewhere.”

Sammie shook his head, trying not to smile. 

“You supposed to be celebratin’.” Stack slung an easy arm across his shoulders and steered him toward the open doors. “You a college man now. A bluesman. My lil’ cousin. Ain’t no room ‘round here for mopin’ all day.”

They stepped into the morning together. Trouble darted past their feet and damn near leaped up the steps into the kitchen. 

Stack leaned close, lowering his voice as though conspiring to rob a bank.

“Aunt Pearl got sweet potato biscuits coolin’ in that kitchen.”

Sammie raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Stack looked over both shoulders with exaggerated caution.

“I heard tell she made peach preserves too.”

A grin finally spread across Sammie’s face.

“You know she gon’ fuss.”

“Only if she catch us.”

They crossed the courtyard shoulder to shoulder, laughing quietly like two boys about to steal something they both knew they’d be forgiven for before supper.

Stack moved like a shadow, his broad shoulders hunched as he crept toward the cooling rack. He didn’t make a sound, his movements were fluid and practiced while Sammie hovered just behind him, his eyes darting toward the doorway. Stack’s large hand shot out, snatching a golden-brown sweet potato biscuit still steaming from the oven. He grabbed another for Sammie, pressing it into his cousin’s palm with a wicked, knowing grin. Using his thick fingers, Stack split the biscuit in half and walked over to the peach preserves, using a tiny, sterling silver engraved spoon to scoop some onto the biscuit. Sammie held his own biscuit out and stack gave him a dollop. 

“Hush now,” Stack whispered with a low, gravelly voice. “‘Fore Pearl catch us and use that bread paddle to whip us.” 

Sammie snorted a laughter while Stack masked his by taking a bite of the buttery delight. Peach preserves danced across his tongue and made his eyes roll shut. 

They retreated from the kitchen, sneaking through the back hallway and slipping into the main area of The Blackline. The main area held the aftermath of a crowded room with floorboards scarred by years of dancing boots and spilled liquor. On stage, Delta Slim sat at the upright piano, his dark fingers dancing over the keys in a slow, mourning melody that seemed to pull the very soul out of the keys. 

A few paces away, Aunt Pearl stood still as a statue. Her dark skin was etched with the lines of a hard-lived life. Her gaze was fixed on Delta with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. She watched him play with a look that hovered somewhere between love and a deep, aching grief. 

Stack leaned in close to Sammie, the biscuit halfway to his mouth. He lowered his voice, a playful glint in his whiskey-colored eyes. 

“I tell ya’, Sammie…I seen ‘em last night,” Stack whispered, glancing back at Pearl. “Caught ‘em in the kitchen. Delta and Aunt Pearl was tongue-kissing like two teenagers who just found out the preacher went to sleep. Thought they was gon’ swallow each other whole.” 

Sammie almost choked on a piece of biscuit, his eyes widening. “Aunt Pearl? Swear? She too strict for that.” 

“Strict in the light, maybe,” Stack chuckled, his deep dimples popping. “But the dark do something to a person. Make ‘em remember things they tried to bury.” Stack paused, his expression softening as he watched the two of them. “I wonder how they even started. You don’t just look at a man like that unless there’s a whole lifetime of ghosts between you.” 

A heavy sigh sounded beside them. Minnie stepped into the light, her shoulders slumped and her eyes heavy with a bone-deep weariness. Her dark skin looked matte when the light hit it and she moved with a slow, dragging gait of someone who hadn’t seen a bed in twenty-four hours. She didn’t say where she’d been, but the way she rubbed the small of her back and the distant, exhausted look in her eyes hinted at her night spent pacing a floor. 

Minnie overheard them and let out a dry, raspy laugh. “Ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout ghosts now? You ain’t gotta wonder, Stack. Pearl used to be the star of the show.” 

Stack raised an eyebrow. “The star?” 

“Mm-hm,” Minnie nodded leaning against a pillar. “She told me sum’ she ain’t never share before. Back in the day, Pearl had a voice that could make the devil weep. She used to sing them old ragtime songs—fast, filthy, full of life. Delta there? She said he was the heart of the band. They was thick as thieves, those two. Had a fling that set the whole Delta talking.”

Sammie looked from Minnie to the piano. “What happened?”

Minnie’s expression dimmed. “Life happened. Delta got caught up in some trouble and needed to on the chain gang. Gone for years. Just like that. Pearl…she ain’t hear nothin’ for a long time. Word got back that he and his buddy Rice had been hanged by the state. Pearl took that news and buried it deep. She married a good man, had her boy, and tired to forget the sound of that piano.” 

Stack watched Delta hit a low, resonant chord. He saw the way Pearl’s chest hitched, a small sharp intake of breath. 

“Seein’ him walk back through those doors.” Minnie continued softly. “It ain’t just bring back the love. It opened up every old wound she ever managed to scab over. It’s a heavy thing, comin’ back from the dead.” 

Stack just stood there, chewing the last of his biscuit, watching the silent communication between the woman and the musician. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a cruel one. It was the smile of a man who understood that the most powerful desires were the ones that survived the impossible. 

Sammie’s expression turned thoughtful, almost tentative. He looked at his cousin—this man who seemed to glide through life with an effortless, seductive confidence, always surrounded by laughter and the scent of expensive pomade and women’s perfume. 

“Stack,” Sammie started, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always out here playin’ the field, keepin’ every girl from here to Chicago guessin’. You ever think you gon’ actually find love? Or you just gon’ keep collectin’ ‘em like stamps?” 

Stack let out a loud, booming laugh that bounced off the scarred floorboards, his deep dimples carving into his cheeks. He slapped his thigh, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl looked over like they’d been interrupted. Minnie walked away with a shake of her head towards the kitchen to start prepping for the night’s opening. 

“Find love?” Stack chuckled, shaking his head. “Boy, you talkin’ like I’m some lonely soul wanderin’ the wilderness. I got love in spades.” Stack gestured broadly with a large hand, encompassing the room. “I got you, I got Smoke—even if that man act like a stone wall half the time. And I got my girls, them sweet twins. I got more love than I know what to do with, Sammie. Why trade a whole garden for one single rose when I can have the whole damn field?” 

Sammie didn’t seem convinced. He let the silence stretch for a second before his voice dropped an octave, becoming a soft, pointed needle. 

“What ‘bout Marigold?” 

The laughter didn’t vanish but it froze. The playful light in his eyes dimmed into something guarded, something unreadable. The name hung in the air between them, heavy and thick, clashing with the mournful chords of the piano. For a heartbeat, the mask of the charming rouge slipped, revealing a glimpse of the man who knew exactly how dangerous a woman like Marigold could be. And exactly how much he craved that danger. 

Stack cleared his throat, his jaw tightening as he straightened up. He didn’t look at Sammie, instead focusing his gaze on the doorway, his voice returning to its usual smooth, dismissive rumble, though the warmth was gone.

“I got shit to do,” Stack muttered, pushing off the pillar. He didn’t linger, turning on his heel to make a quick exit. As he walked away, he tossed a hand back over his shoulder, his tone returning to a forced, teasing edge. “Go on now. Go find yourself some stag films and a bottle of corn liquor. Put some hair on that chest ‘o yours ‘fore you start gettin’ all poetic on me.” 

A few blocks over, Marigold scarcely slept. The dawn had come pale and slow through the bedroom curtains, finding her already awake, sitting upright with the blankets gathered around her waist. Obadiah had risen before first light as he always did, his side of the bed left neat and undisturbed, the lingering scent of his shaving soap hanging faintly in the room. He’d come home late, Marigold faking sleep to avoid him. She remained where she was long after he had gone. Her cheek rested against her fingertips and every time she closed her eyes, she saw Evangeline. Not the girl laughing with Sammie. Not the girl slipping through the doors of The Blackline.

The girl in that narrow hallway. Eyes shining with hurt. Voice trembling beneath anger.

You weren’t teachin’ us. You were teachin’ us how to become you.

Marigold squeezed her eyes shut. Then came another.

Naomi was right.

Her stomach tightened.

Naomi. Esther.

The wounds she had spent years trying to bind together with prayer and patience had been ripped open in the span of a few cruel minutes. Evangeline had spoken their names like accusations. Like Marigold had stood by while both of them slipped beyond her reach.

Had she?

The question refused to leave.

She rose at last, bathed, dressed simply, and tied her hat beneath her chin with hands that would not stop fidgeting. She intended to make her usual house visits that morning. Instead, her feet carried her somewhere else.

She needed to see Evangeline. Needed to apologize. Needed to explain. Or perhaps…she simply needed to know the girl had made it home. That thought settled uneasily in her chest. She couldn’t stop thinking that Evangeline had returned safely…and would tell someone where she’d seen the First Lady the night before. Marigold hated herself for thinking it. More than that, she hated that the thought had come before anything else. She whispered a prayer beneath her breath as she walked. The prayer wasn’t for protection. It was for forgiveness.

The Monroe home sat undisturbed beneath the morning sun, its white paint weathered by Arkansas summers and damp winters alike. A pair of rocking chairs rested on the porch, one still gently swaying as though someone had only recently risen from it. Marigold climbed the steps, and for a moment she almost turned around.

What if Evangeline refused to see her? What if Ruth answered with questions Marigold couldn’t bear?

She lifted her hand anyway. Three soft knocks.

Tap tap tap. 

Footsteps approached from inside. The door opened.

Ruth Monroe stood there, and Marigold knew instantly something was wrong. Ruth’s eyes were swollen. They weren’t red from a restless night. They were red from crying.  Her apron had been thrown on carelessly over yesterday’s dress, and her hair, usually pinned with meticulous care, had begun slipping loose around her temples.

“Ruth…” Marigold’s voice softened. “I came to—”

Ruth looked at Marigold with the bewildered expression of someone whose world no longer obeyed reason.

“You ain’t seen her…have you?”

The question struck like cold water.

Marigold frowned. “Seen?”

“Evangeline.”

A hollow ache opened beneath Marigold’s ribs.

“I thought she’d be here.”

Ruth shook her head slowly. “She never come home.”

The words settled between them. Heavy. Impossible. Marigold searched Ruth’s face for the certainty that this was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps she’d stayed with cousins. Perhaps she’d gone to one of the girls from Bible study. Perhaps…

Ruth lifted a trembling hand.

There was an envelope in it. Its edges had already softened from being unfolded and folded again.

“I found this on her bedside table this mornin’.”

Marigold looked down. Across the front, written in familiar handwriting, was one simple word.

Mama.

“I went to wake her,” Ruth whispered. “Her bed…it hadn’t been slept in.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “This was sittin’ underneath her Bible.”

Marigold felt something inside her sink. Like a stone disappearing beneath dark water.

Ruth held the letter against her chest. “She says she left.” Her voice broke. “She says she needed to find herself.”

Somewhere beyond the yard, a mockingbird sang as though the morning had begun like any other.

Marigold looked toward the open doorway, into the little house she had visited so many times over the years. She could almost picture Evangeline as a child racing through those rooms with ribbons flying behind her.

Then, her thoughts returned to the night before.

To the hallway. To the slap. To the hurt in Evangeline’s eyes.

A terrible guilt settled over her. She had come to ask forgiveness.

Instead…

She found only absence.

“Come on in.” 

Marigold hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold. The Monroe joke carried all the familiar comforts she’d known for years. The smell of coffee lingered in the kitchen. There was a half-finished basket of mending rested beside Ruth’s favorite chair. Family photographs lined the mantel with polished silver frames that caught the light. 

Nothing changed. Yet everything had.

Ruth closed the front door behind them but didn’t sit. And wandered into the parlor, one hand wringing the folded letter while the other worried at the edge of her apron. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her voice shook. “I just…I keep thinkin’ maybe she’ll come through that front door and fuss at me for worryin’.” 

Marigold removed her gloves, buying herself a moment to steady the knot in her chest. 

“Had anyone else seen this?” 

Ruth shook her head. “No. My husband left before daylight for the mill.” She swallowed. “He still think she asleep.” Her eyes filled again. “I don’t know how to tell him.” The words barely made it out. “He—he already think we been losin’ her.” 

Marigold stepped closer. Ruth had always been the steadier parent. Gentle where her husband was firm. Patient where he was quick to correct. Seeing her come apart unsettled something deep inside Marigold.

“May I…?” Marigold nodded toward the letter.

Ruth looked down at the page for a long moment before placing them into Marigold’s hands. 

“I’ve read it so many times I know every word by heart now.” Ruth drew a shaky breath that never quite settled. 

Madigold unfolded the paper with great care. The handwriting was unmistakably Evangeline’s. Neat. Rounded. Carefully practiced. Marigold could tell from the years spent in purity class walking the rows between desks, staring down over the girls’ shoulders as they wrote brief essays on how to remain sacred and serve the Lord. 

She began reading. 

Mama, 

I’m sorry. I know I disappointed you and Daddy more times than I can count. I don’t fit here anymore, and I don’t think I ever will. I need to figure out who I am without everybody tellin’ me who I’m supposed to be. Please don’t come lookin’ for me. I’m safe.  I just need somewhere I can breathe.  Maybe one day you’ll forgive me. Tell Daddy I’m sorry. I love you. 

Evangeline. 

Marigold lowered the page but did not immediately look up. It sounded…possible. Painfully possible. And painfully familiar. Every line echoed the frustration Evangeline had carried for months. Yet something about it sat strangely against Marigold’s heart. 

Ruth managed a weak, watery smile through her tears. 

“The handwriting’s hers.” 

Karigold looked back down. “It certainly looks like it. I recognized it the second I opened it.” 

Ruth laughed softly, though there was no joy in the sound.

“Funny thing is…” she wiped beneath her one eye. “When she was little, she would dot all her little i’s with Tony circles.” 

Marigold glanced up. “Circles?” 

“Mmm-hmm.” Ruth smiled at the memory. “Little bitty things.” She held her fingers barely apart. “Looked like she’d sprinkled flower petals all over her schoolwork. I used to tell her nobody’d take her serious writin’ like that.” Another quiet laugh escaped her. “I guess she finally outgrew it.” 

Marigold’s eyes drifted back to the page. Each lowercase i wore an ordinary dot. Perfectly ordinary. She folded the letter carefully along the original crease before returning it to Ruth.

“I hope that’s all it is.” 

Ruth clutched it against her chest again. “I keep tellin’ myself she’s eighteen. Maybe she just…” her voice cracked. “…needed to leave.” 

Marigold reached out and gently covered Ruth’s trembling hand. “I…I know this is hard.” 

Ruth looked at her with eyes full of questions no mother should ever have to ask. 

“You think she gon’ come back?” 

Marigold opened her mouth. No answer came. Instead, she gave Ruth’s hand the smallest reassuring squeeze she could manage.

“I pray she does.” 

Even as the words left her lips, an uneasiness settled deeper inside her. She could not shake the memory of the last thing Evangeline had said before walking away.

Hell already done broke loose in the both of us.

It was something much worse.

The road to Annie’s shop lay just ahead, looming, narrow and rugged. Dirt kicked up from the wheels, a thick cloud of red dust and exhaust smoke that billowed into the sky and disappeared into the trees.

Seven years had gone by. Seven years of Chicago winters and tear-stained letters. Seven years of ache. Seven years of keeping his brother safe. And seven years without the woman who kept them both alive. 

He and Stack shared a lil’ kitchenette apartment in the blackbelt. They ran jobs for Capone, hoarding money, gold, and hooch, and stashing it in a dilapidated warehouse. It was risky business, sure— but Chicago was always a means to an end.

It meant no more busting ass for the white man to roll up a few days after Christmas, cigar in his mouth, smirk on his face, just to tell him he still owed him money after picking his cotton all fucking year.

They had plans. Big ones. They’d open a place where their people could enjoy themselves. Not some raggedy shit that ran out of a plantation shack. They’d buy that old sawmill, patch it up, turn it into a juke joint. 

He’d put his share of the profit into something more stable— a funeral home on Issaquena, running hearses from there to Mound Bayou. And Smoke, he could finally build his wife that house they both dreamed about. Something real peaceful. Two stories, a kitchen, a garden, a picket fence, pigpen and a chicken coop. They could live off the land and fill the house with babies. Little chocolate cherubs with his dimples and her eyes.

He’d begged her to follow him. He said he’d go ahead, set everything up for them, take a job at the stockyard. He’d work his way up and buy them a place over in Bronzeville. Something comfortable, with a view of Lake Michigan. A fresh start.

She refused. Told him that blood kept her bound to the land. That she wouldn’t leave their daughter’s grave untended. She poured her soul into his mojo bag before he left. He’d press his lips to it sometimes, when the ache started to feel tangible. He could still taste the salt from her tears, like she blessed it with them.

He kissed her hard and fucked her slow the night before. Then he tucked his hat and held her softly as she wept on his chest. 

“I love you.”

He didn’t apologize or make promises. He didn’t need to. Their understanding went beyond what words could explain. When she looked up at him, doe eyes red-rimmed and watery, his chest tightened. Her gaze pierced his soul. He kissed her trembling lips once more, then he walked out the door. 

Smoke’s truck stopped short of the house. He took a deep breath. Then he cut the engine, and stepped out of his truck. He looked around, taking it all in slowly. The porch still sagged in the middle; a wayward floorboard still hung loose on the steps. But the garden was tended. The faint scent of rosemary she used to sweep the porch still hung in the air. 

He looked to his left and froze. A little mound of earth. A stone with a small handprint. A bottle of fresh milk. An Egun stick...she taught him that. And a rusted tin for flowers. He took off his cap, the bundle of flowers trembling slightly in his hand.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d been crouching before he noticed the wind had stopped blowing. The throaty flute of a windchime sounded and pollen danced around his head, but he could feel no breeze. A chill ran down his spine. The same chill he felt during long nights in Chicago, when the danger felt close and the longing got rough. Nights he swore he could hear her calling his name in narrow alleyways and the back of speakeasies. 

His voice was thick, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. 

“How you be?” 

Annie shifted her weight, leaning against the doorframe. 

“No misery’s worth complaining about.” She spoke with a rawness that brought him to his feet.

When he finally turned to look at her, his breath left him. She looked regal, leather belt cinching her waist, blue skirts moving like tide. She stood perfectly still inside the doorway, looking like a force to be reckoned with. Like a current.

Grief, longing, love and ache all channeled into something that looked more like peace on her. Acceptance. Purpose.

This wasn’t the woman he left seven years ago, the one who left teardrops on the leather of his mojo bag. Certainly not the woman he met 13 years prior— a shy young woman of 18 whose words were spoken quietly but carried weight.

This woman was different. Born of water and baptized in fire. She stood in front of him, a formidable woman. A pillar, a beacon. Unbridled, unapologetic.

Reborn.

The air was thick, sweltering with a lust-filled heat that rivaled the Mississippi’s. Wet smacks and low grunts echoed off the wall, jars and vials clinked as they fell making room for the slick joining of two bodies drunk with need. 

Smoke wasn’t gentle. He spun her around and shoved her dress up, putting her exactly where he wanted her. There was no formality, no softness— just a raw need to be close. He pushed in with one long thrust that filled her completely. The stretch was overwhelming— he was thick and long, and it made her face twist up in ecstasy. Her hands reached out, her fingernails digging into the warped wood. 

“Nuh-uh, where you goin?” 

Smoke pulled out, angling her hips, spreading her wider. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back onto his dick. This angle hit deeper, making Annie see stars. She squealed in pleasure.

“Ah! Elijah!” 

He set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin spurring him on. He licked up her neck, then buried his face in it, growling in her ear. 

“Who pussy is this?”

“Yours!” 

“Say it,” he gritted, feeling her clamp down on him.

“Ah—this p-pussy belongs to you papa!” 

“Mhmm.” Smoke slowed down his strokes, letting every thick vein glide against her sensitive walls. 

“I’ma fill you up,” he said breathlessly. “Leave you leakin’. Want you walkin’ around that juke full of my nut.” He pulled her hair back, making her arch into him. “You want that baby? Want me to make a mess in you?”

“Yes papa,” she moaned. “I want it drippin’ down my thighs.” 

“Ask nicely,” he grunted, tilting his head. She was squeezing him again, her pussy working hard to milk that nut out.

“Please papa,” she whined. “Please make a mess in me.”

Smoke groaned. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.”

He sped up his strokes again and Annie started screaming. “Come on baby,” he barked. “Fuck me back. Show me how much you missed papa’s dick.” 

And like the good girl that Annie was, she followed her papa’s orders.

A Few Hours Later… Smoke and Annie pulled up to the mill just as the sun began to set, the sky the color of a bruise. He cut the engine, going over the events of the night. Annie tried to listen, as he went on about roulettes and Irish beer, but her thoughts kept drifting like something reached into her brain and yanked.

“Smoke, what time is it?” 

Smoke looked down at his watch. “4:32,” he grumbled.

She grabbed her haint beads.

Smoke raised a brow from the driver’s seat. “You good mama?”

Annie hesitated. “Sun rose at six this mornin’. Ain’t due to set for another hour.”

Smoke rubbed her shoulder as Stack approached the truck. “What you thinkin’?”

Annie looked at Smoke dead in his eyes, “This place give me the willies.” 

“Hey sis-in-law, long time no see,” Stack said as he opened the passenger door. He removed his hat and helped her out. 

“Hey Stack,” she said, bringing him into a hug. 

“Thanks for comin’ tonight.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Annie said, still tugging her elekes. Just as she slipped into the building she looked up— three vultures sat perched on the roof. 

Music was flowing, plates were selling, bottles of beer and mason jars of wine and whiskey clinked in the air. Annie stood behind the bar, looking at what her husband and his twin put together for their community with a sense of pride. Still, she couldn’t help but feel an impending sense of doom. 

It wasn’t too often people her color were allowed prolonged happiness. There would always be some white person who came along and disturbed their peace just because they could. That’s what they did— they lived to reduce them to nothing but hard laborers and strip any sense of joy they tried to cultivate. That was their formula— break ‘em before they think they deserve more.

But this…this was something different. 

It felt older— older than Jim Crow and much more sinister.

As soon as Sammie struck his first chord, she felt it.

The veil wasn’t just thinning, it had split wide open.

🎵See I’m full of the Blues, Holy water too… I know the truth hurts, so I lied to you…🎵

“Ain't no way of bringing nobody back once they gone, that don’t involve evil. Best thang we can do for ‘em is free they spirit from the curse.” — Annie Moore

Club Juke turned into a mix of blood, fangs and fire.

Stack emerged from the shadows and lunged, pinning Annie to the ground. 

“No!” Smoke darted towards her, but was intercepted by Remmick. 

“Elias, not Annie!” 

This is it, she thought. She knew when she threw her bones it would come to this, it just hurt to think it’d come at the hands of Stack. That the man in charge of her demise would wear the same face as her husband.

She thought about what she could have done. Then she thought about what happened the last time she didn’t let things play out the way they were supposed to. She thought about Smoke, about what she made him promise. He was screaming her name, pleading with Stack while she sobbed quietly. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to witness the pain on his face. 

“Not you,” Annie whispered between tears. 

Stack pulled her jaw towards him. His eyes shined bright, a chilling pale blue. His mouth twisted into a smirk, drool dripping slowly from his fangs. He smirked wider when she squirmed, taunting her. He was enjoying this, seeing her uncomfortable, hearing his twin plead for her life. He took his time, watching her try to wiggle out of his grip with amusement. Annie braced herself as Stack lowered his head. 

The screams faded. The shooting, snarling, crackle of fire, all dulled like the world was holding its breath. Annie squeezed her eyes shut, praying quietly as she felt fangs tease her neck. 

“Asé.” 

Click-click. BOOM! 

Smoke was freed from Remmick’s grip.

Click-click. BOOM!

“Annie!”

Annie’s eyes flew open to find Pearline standing above her reloading her shotgun, the barrel still smoking. 

“Annie! Get up!” 

Smoke all but dragged her up off the floor, putting a stake in her hand. A not-so-subtle reminder that the fight wasn’t over. Not until they got Sammie someplace safe. “Come on baby, ain’t done yet.”

October 16, 1932 The air felt thick, like the morning after a storm. It smelled of iron, ash, and the morbidly-sweet rot of a juke joint stripped of its soul and forced to its grave. Death moved through the floorboards like a presence, lingering in corners and clinging to walls like shadows that bent wrong. The sun was still on its ascent, the pale light of morning peaking through the rafters, smoking the vampire bodies in its path. 

The shooting stopped five minutes ago, but Annie couldn’t tell. Time here felt like it was holding its breath— like she was standing at the edge of something she couldn’t name, but recognized its shape. Like someone split the veil open and something older stepped out. 

Annie sat on top of the bar, trying to quiet the sounds of pain, horror and surrender that echoed in her head. She was slouched, breath stuck in her throat, limbs trembling under the weight of grief and guilt. Her face was covered— a layer of dust, blood and sweat like a second skin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, raw and filled with tears that cleared a path where they fell like a map no one asked for. Her dress was in tatters, shoes long gone— lost somewhere in the fight. 

Delta Slim’s body was in literal pieces on the stage. Mangled and completely drained of blood, it was a chilling testament to the terror that tore through the night. His harmonica lay amidst a chaotic pile of splintered wood, shards of glass, and blood splatter like a shiny, silver headstone.

Her shoulders shook, tears spilling down her cheeks. The place that was supposed to be somewhere for their community to enjoy themselves became a vehicle of violence and destruction. Of course the klan were involved. Smoke took them out by himself. Picked them off one by one, just like he promised. The mill door creaked open and he stumbled in clutching his side. 

“Baby,” Annie gasped, “you hurt?!” 

Smoke shook his head. “Just a graze. But we gotta go. I got the truck ready.” 

He scooped Annie in his arms and pressed his forehead to hers. His white undershirt was stained red, his pants caked with dirt and gunpowder. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, his hands trembling where he touched her. He had Stack’s dogtags wrapped around his wrist.

“Thought I was gon’ lose you for good,” he murmured. “Ain’t livin’ without you again.”

Annie cradled his face, her tears still flowing. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not without you.”

“Then let’s go home, Mrs. Moore.”

They burned the mill and every trace of what transpired there to the ground until the land was as dark as the blood and ash that soaked it. Black fumes billowed in the air for miles, the smell so vile it burned their eyes. They drove until they couldn’t smell it anymore. Then they kept driving until they saw Spanish moss and swampland. Louisiana.

Her parent’s cottage was still there. Long unoccupied, but still standing. It had a wide porch, a large backyard, and her grandmother’s wind chimes still hanging by the front door. It felt like peace, like this was home now.

Annie swept the floorboards with rosemary and performed her protection spells while Smoke beat the rugs out back and hid their stash under the floorboards. 

They bathed together, her back to his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. They held each other a little tighter that night, the kerosene lamp throwing gold shadows against their skin. He laid behind her and slid in slowly. The thick stretch of him, the power in his strokes made her shudder with pleasure. He was still buried deep when they drifted off, tangled in the sheets, bodies slick with their love. And when the light of dawn made their eyelids flutter awake, he took her again.

Three Months Later January 31, 1933 

Life was joyfully slow. Annie fed the chickens and tended her shop. Smoke found honest work on the railroad. Every morning they watched the sunrise together. Every night they’d hold each other close, listening to the bullfrogs and crickets compete for sound. He’d fuck her filthy every chance he got. Talk her through it, leave her leaking. She stayed so full of him, he filled her with babies, too. 

The kitchen smelled like garlic and saltpork. Annie stood at the stove, apron tied loosely over a faded green house dress that fit a little more snug now that she was showing. She smiled down at her growing belly, rubbing it with one hand and stirring a pot of butter beans with the other. Her hips swayed slowly to the song she hummed under her breath. Smoke sat at the kitchen table, watching her with a tender heat. He crossed the room in two strides, pressing himself against her back.

“I’m hungry,” he said roughly.

“Mmm,” she hummed. “Supper’s almost ready, baby.”

“Nah,” he muttered. “My food right here. Been marinatin’ all day.”

He dropped to his knees and pulled up her dress. No panties. 

“Mhmm.” He smacked each ass cheek. “Arch that back, baby.”

Annie whimpered. She arched her back.

He licked his lips and dove in tongue first.

October 15, 1933  Smoke sat in the living room, rocking their daughter. She babbled and cooed gently as he held her on his chest, just above his heart. 

Annie kneeled at her altar with a heavy heart, eyes wide with unshed tears. She laid a spread out in front of her like something sacred.

A pearl for Pearline. A flask for Slim. An old button from a pair of overalls for Cornbread. Bo’s keychain. And a paintbrush for Grace.

She thought about Cornbread. How Therese had to raise their child alone. Thought about lil’ Lisa, how her parents never came home. She thought about Pearline, a woman just trying to find some escape and got caught in the crosshairs. 

Then she thought about Slim. Thought about how he laid down his life for Sammie. Welcomed death with open arms.

“He’ll be visitin’ Sammie,” she whispered. “Watchin’ him play.”  Then she thought about everyone else at the juke. Her community who came there looking for freedom and fun, and ended up getting burnt by the sun. Those people left behind children, siblings, parents, friends, lovers, lives, legacies. She still remembered standing there next to Smoke, watching the mill burn to ash and feeling the souls stuck on that land, rotting, cursed.

“I think about y’all all the time,” she said to the empty room. “I wanna help y’all crossover proper…just don’t know how.”

A tear fell onto her bottom lip. She licked it, tasting the salt of her pain.  

“I need you grandma, great-grandma,” she pleaded softly. “Please.” 

She bowed her head and cried. “So many people lost that night,” she sniffled. “Just gone. It ain’t right.” 

A windchime sounded outside, but Annie didn’t hear it. The room got colder, the candles flickered once then held steady.

That’s heavy work, baby girl. 

Her head snapped up. “Grandma?”

Abeni. 

That was a different voice.

Annie paused. “Who are you?”

The stolen one.

A third voice. Annie thought for a moment, the constant tears shedding clouding her eyes and her mind. 

“Great-grandma?”

It was silent for a beat. Then—

The flood. The voice said.

Annie gasped. “The one on the other side.”

Your spirit looks sad.

“I could have done something,” she whispered.

Wouldn’t have stopped it no way. That kind of creature, they love to feed on a woman with your gift. Makes ‘em more powerful.

“How do I start? What can I do?”

A body is a good start.

“So they have to be alive?”

That kind, they may walk this earth, but they ain’t alive.

“But I can set their spirits free?”

You can guide it around what’s feedin’ on it. But it ain’t easy. Gon’ take a lot from you, just like it took from me. Their soul has to want it. And some souls, they like bein’ fed on— no matter what they say. Their type— they’re tricksters. Don’t confuse a spirit that wants to be set free with a rotted flesh that wants to lure you in.

Nine Years Later October 25, 1941 

The living room was…loud. A cacophony of toddler babbling, baby cooing and the high pitch of children’s voices. They huddled around the ham radio, turning the knob until they heard the smooth hum of the radio station.

“Hush now! Don’t y’all wanna hear cousin Sammie on the radio?” 

A chorus of yes sir’s rang out. Five to be exact.

“Then be quiet ‘fore ya mama send y’all back to bed,” Smoke barked out. 

Annie appeared from the back room, baby Ezra suckling her breast. “Now why am I in it?” 

Smoke pulled her into his lap, resting his chin on her shoulder. “I just wanted you out here, baby. Missed you when you was gone.”

Annie giggled, moving Ezra to her shoulder to burp. “I been gone for five minutes, Smoke.”

He nuzzled her ear, then kissed her on the cheek. “Five minutes too long.”

Smoke squeezed Annie’s waist when a familiar bassline came over the radio.

🎵Somethin’ I wanna tell ya, ‘fore a long time… It might hurt ya, might lose ya mind…🎵

They looked at each other with recognition. The painful memories of that night still haunted them— Smoke would wake up gasping, covered in sweat. He’d grab his gun and check the locks twice before crawling back in bed. Sometimes Annie would see burning bodies when she closed her eyes. Bo, Grace, Pearline, Cornbread. Slim’s mangled body. His harmonica that laid on the stage like a grave marker. 

Stack came around sometimes. He’d leave candy for the kids, whiskey for Smoke and flowers for Annie. Him and Mary settled across the river in New Orleans, living in the shadows of narrow alleyways, rotting churches, and abandoned mills. They could be around their own kind down there, a certain kind of freedom if you squinted your eyes and looked real close. 

Sammie wrote to his cousins every two weeks. He made it to Chicago and recorded “I Lied to You” at Columbia Records the following year. Took him a whole week to get it done ‘cause the equipment kept shutting down mid-session. He told Annie that sometimes, when he was alone in the booth, he’d smell a whiff of corn liquor, followed by the faint thrum of a harmonica and a familiar cackle. He wrote a song for his old friend that day, the man who sacrificed himself so he could be free. It’d go on to be the second single on his debut album. Called it “Magic (It’s What We Do).”

December 7, 1985 The room held its breath. 

The oxygen machine hissed. The heart monitor beeped rhythmically. Their children, all six of them in their 40’s and 50’s now surrounded Annie’s bedside.

Smoke sat in the chair next to her, staring at the woman he loved since 1919. He was bald now, wrinkled, even walked with a cane— but his presence still filled a room and pressed into the corners. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, just so Annie could hear it. “For givin’ me this life.” 

Annie smiled weakly. “You mean havin’ all your bighead babies?”

Elijah Jr, who looked like he could have been Smoke and Stack’s triplet, spoke up. “Now mama, why we gotta be big headed?” 

Smoke chuckled, rubbing her hand gently. “For lovin’ me. For givin’ me another chance,” he said softly. “And havin’ all my big headed babies.”

Annie choked out a laugh that turned into a cough. 

Their eldest daughter Grace stepped forward, helping her mother sit up. “Mama, the doctor said relax. Don’t be workin’ yourself up.” 

Annie swatted her daughter’s arm. “Y’all don’t need to worry about me. Be laughin’ plenty where I’m goin’.”

“Mama don’t talk like that!” she hissed, voice thick with emotion. 

“Look here,” Annie started. “I told y’all this day would come. Everybody got a time. You just pray that your time come when you ready and not because somebody else decided for you.” 

“Mama….”

Annie sat up fully with Smoke’s help. “Now I want y’all to listen to me. I ain’t got long for this earth. And I ain’t scared. I feel a peace I ain’t never felt before. Know where I’m goin’, I get to see your sister again.”

Smoke squeezed her hand. 

“She would have been 62 this year. But she wasn’t meant to be on this earth that long. I had to learn to accept that. Took a while. Hurt real bad. Wasn’t my fault, or yo daddy’s. Not everybody meant to stay long. Some people shorter than others. Don’t mean they life didn’t mean nothin’. Your sister didn’t make it a year and I still remember her laugh like it was yesterday. Still remember what she smell like — milk and lavender.” 

Annie smiled to herself.

“It used to hurt thinkin’ about her. Thought I’d never think on her without it takin’ a piece of me. But now I feel joy.” She paused. “That’s how I want y’all to remember me. Y’all have a piece of me in you, so whenever you get sad, just remember…you a part of me. I’ll always be here in spirit.” 

Annie looked around the room at her family, the children her and Smoke made out of love and wrapped up in it. She looked at her husband, a formidable man even in his old age. Their eyes held a silent conversation.

“I love you.”

Smoke kissed the back of her hand. “I love you too, mama.”

She winked at him, then she laid back with a smile and closed her eyes. The beep of the heart monitor slowly decreased.

Annie took her last breath that night. Smoke sat by her side— an ever steady presence amidst chaos. He didn’t cry. Didn’t even look sad as the room filled with sobs and screams of their children. He just adjusted her blanket like it would make her more comfortable, kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear. “I’ll see you soon.”

He wouldn’t make it to her funeral.

Stack came by that same night. He looked at his 87-year-old brother and saw the face of a man who ultimately lived life on his own terms. He saw a man who led a life so fulfilling, he was happy to leave it to spend eternity in the sky. He saw a man who he knew he’d never see again in person, not even in the mirror. 

They stood side-by-side under the old oak in the backyard, watching the warmth of the house lights spill out the windows. 

“How’d she go?” Stack asked.

Smoke dipped his head, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Peacefully,” he said quietly.

Stack nodded. “You next,” he said, not a question. 

“It’s my time,” Smoke said with finality.

Stack turned to face his brother. “You know I ain’t good at goodbyes,” he said with a shaky voice. “That’s why it’s never goodbye, always see you later.” He tried to chuckle, but a sob came out instead. “But it’s fuckin’ me up that I won’t be seein’ you later ‘cuz of this…curse,” he choked out. Stack took a deep breath to calm himself. “Maybe Annie can conjure up somethin’ from the spirit world, have me swallow some herbs ‘n shit so I can see y’all again.” 

Smoke looked at his forever 35-year-old twin with a profound sadness. He saw a restless spirit. He saw a 9-year-old Elias, terrified to walk this world alone. He saw a 23-year-old Stack terrified to go to Little Rock alone. His heart swelled. There were so many emotions he wished he could convey, but they all got stuck— like they were meant to be left unsaid. Or maybe because Stack already knew. “I’ma miss you,” was all he could manage to get out.

They pulled each other into a hug.

“Ain’t no me without you,” he sobbed. “I can’t do this shit without you.” 

“You can and you will. You gon’ do it for me. For my lil’ ones. Make sure they don’t get in no trouble.”

Stack chuckled low. “Thought I don’t know how to watch my own back?”

“You ain’t gotta choice now fool,” he laughed. “Annie gon’ put belt-to-ass, even from the afterlife.”

The SmokeStack twins stood under the stars, reminiscing about their glory days and the nights that still haunted them. New York. France. Chicago. Clarksdale. They talked until dawn threatened the horizon. 9 decades. Two brothers. Two paths. Split for eternity. When Smoke turned to the house, he looked over his shoulder one last time and saw tear stained cheeks that matched his own. 

“I love you, lil’ brother.”

“I love you too, big brother.”

As Stack watched his brother slip back into the house, something came over him. It wasn’t a breeze. More like a feeling. A prickling of his skin, like when the temperature drops suddenly. Then her scent wrapped around him— lavender and vanilla, the smell so strong it made his nose tingle. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“Knew you’d come through,” he whispered into the darkness, tears still falling. 

Elijah “Smoke” Moore passed three days later. Peacefully. Just like Annie had. As he took his last few breaths, he smiled weakly at the ceiling. “Told you,” he whispered softly. “I ain’t livin’ without you again.”