Synopsis (one shot) : seven years later, nothing prepare his heart to bury his soulmate. Is human life that less expensive ?
C.W : use of racial slurs, violence, death, heavy angst, revenge
Songs : Say yes to heaven, Lana Del Rey, People help people, Birdy â
Seven years. As Stack confidently assured, were not enough for Delta to forget about them.
He was right. To whom that might concern, they were terrors, heroes or simply trouble kids.
Not for her.
Smoke was anxious. Only imagining holding her gaze after all these years terrified him. Yet, it didnât explain why every soul here, including his own blood prevented him from crossing the road to her house.
âItâs been a month. I need to see her.â
Stack had been told the truth as soon as they had arrived. Cowardice held him tight and he couldnât confess the reality to his brother.
âStack Iâm taking the truck.â Smoke uttered, picking his blue hat from Bo Chowâs counter
âElijah.â Stack caught his twinâs shoulder firmly. âIâm sorry.â
The chow stayed mute, uncomfortably â Graceâs eyes lowered.
The crowd in the convenience store emptied gradually without bringing the tense silence with them.
âWhatâs gotten to you, Stack? Come on nigga, itâs been a month. I must see my wife, I canât keep listening to your caââ
âSheâs gone.â Grace shouted, interrupting â her tears washing down the floorboards.
Stack bit his lower lip, accepting any wrath coming to him.
Nothing arrived. Instead, the wrist he was holding started trembling. Tremors crawled through Smokeâs entire body. He widened his eyes, brows furrowed, then abruptly he pulled his pistol out of the holster, holding it sharply toward the Chinese woman.
âWhat you said?â
âLast year, an epidemic of malaria stormed in DeltaâŠsheâŠâ
The gun slammed the ground and Smoke was running already. He started his truck â the engine coughing once and twice before giving.
Knots tightened his stomach â intestines twisting and twirling.
His fingers trembled on the steering wheel, heart pounding fast and loud in his chest.
His Annie. Gone? What a joke.
With flexed jaw and gritted teeth, he hit the gas â deaf to the complaints and curses of the kinfolks.
âANNIEâ!â Smoke cried, yelling high as soon he put a foot on the swampy pavement leading to her shack. âWoman Iâm calling youââ his lips stayed suspended, heart sinking in his empty, hurtful stomach when he cut his eyes to the garden â right beside the little rock he had made for their late little girl. âNoâŠNOâ NOâ
He fell, knees embracing the muddy earth. Tears welled down his cheeks, uncontrollably while his shaking fingers grabbed the blue scarf and pearls necklace : âplease baby. Wake up. PleaseâŠâ
Smoke begged and cried â snot and tears confusingly mixed on his tortured face. âIâm home mama. Please, you slept a lot alreadyâŠâ he leaned over, forehead touching the mud, lips whispering to the earth. âI get it. I learned my lessonâŠso pleaseâŠPLEASEââ
He began digging through the ground frantically â dirt caking his nails. Passengers stopped in their walking, hushing among them about the twin who had gone mad finally.
âSmokeâ! Stop.â Stack rushed out his car, cupping his brother broad back with his arms.
âGet the fuck off me! Iâm taking my wife back, STACK LEAVE ME ALONEâ
Stack tightened his embrace, kneeling behind his twin. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry Smoke.â
âNo⊠you all tripping.â Smoke lost it. He crashed his head on rock holding the clothes and jewelries together. âAnnie is just putting a little trick on meâŠright baby?â His lips fluttered the swampy grassland again before he cracking. âHowâŠwhyâŠwhy her? Why now?â
Stack had no answer to give. He just held the pieces of his brother without interrupting his lamentations.
The next days were nightmarish. Smoke craved answers. He barely got up from bed, living a phantom reality where his Annie was still alive.
âWhat happened?â He asked plainly as soon as he opened Bo chowâs store.
âSmokeâŠlistenâŠâ
âBo chow. What happened to my wife.â
âThe malaria epidemic, it was deadly. Folks living in south of the town didnât make it because of the swamps..and we tried to get her some help but they all refused toâŠâ Bo wiped his forehead with a cloth. âPretending that their medicines couldnât help her kin. They asked us for exorbitant amounts of dollars we didnât haveâŠâ
Dollars?
Dollars fucking bills were the price of his wifeâs life?
âI see.â
âSmoke, Iâm sorry weââ
But he had already left.
Smoke passed by those crackers infirmaries, their greenhouse, taking in all details, his mind running miles.
When the night came, he couldnât sleep and as he stood up from the mattress, a breeze caresses his spine with a soft voice gushing close to his ear : Elijah.
Precipitately he turned around, painful relief claiming his heart : âAnnieââ
Nobody. Nothing except the wall. And the crickets under the moonlight, singing him lullabies.
âIâm alone Maâ. I canât hold you anymore.â He cupped his face, drowning his palms with tears. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry. Iâm soâsorry.â
His breath ragged, spasms invaded pores of his body.
Elijah. Donât go there. Papa, donât go there. The breeze talked to him again, swiping her languishing voice in his ear.
Smoke spun again, following the brittle sound of her ghostly voice. He cut his hands in the air, grabbing the void : âIâm here. Iâm right here. Why canât you â why wonât you ââ
Cold wind was the only lover to embrace tonight. Yet, somehow her magnolia scent still nudged his nostrils. He staggered toward it, arms wide open, hands shaking.
Sunday nights used to be tender and lovely. When she wasnât the one preparing Jars and potions, he was the one busying with woodwork. Nevertheless they always had found a way to get in each otherâs touches.
Not this Sunday.
âI canât â I canât find you mama. I canât ââ his voice cracked down the middle. âWhere are you, where are you ââ his knees gave out, letting him fall down on the floor â face ruined with tears and snot, eyes so red they threatened to cry blood.
He turned his head a full circle, still reaching. Everywhere and untouchable all at once.
âThis ainât real.â He snapped. âWhat they put in that damn ground ainât you.â His features severed and relaxed madly. âYou too hardheaded to let something like malaria take you.â
Papa, Iâm happy. Donât let sorrow blighted you.
âWhy are you speaking in my head while all I crave is your body to embrace? Please Annie. Please, you punished meâŠenoughâŠpleaseâŠâ
Monday morning came and immediately was followed by the night. Stack was suspicious, worried about Smokeâs mental state.
His twin barely shared words with him.
Reason was, his mind was somewhere else.
Dollars, right?
Smoke counted stacks of money, carried the bag of it with him, under the dark cloudsâ glares.
The town was asleep when he cracked bullets between eyes of two white men who were smoking in front of the infirmary.
âNiggers ainât welcome here. Get out. Go die somewhere else.â
The middle age spiteful man didnât have chances to uttered another slur, Smokeâs gun already hit his temple.
With his free hand, he threw the bag on the counter and growled. âCount it.â Jaw flexed, gaze unreadable, fist tight on the chamber. Smoke hit the man with the hammer, bleeding him. âI said. count those fuckinâ damn dollars.â
The cracker obeyed. His roasted pink skin reddening uglier.
âWeâ listenâŠI can stillââ
âHow much innit?â Smoke spat.
Mouth wide opened, drool almost leaking from his lips, the white doctor couldnât hide the terror and greed dancing in his greenish eyes â8000$â
âGood money right? Real american motherfuckinâ dollars.â Smoke pressed his lips tight, grimacing of anger.
âLook my guyâŠthere some misââ
BANG.
The bullet traveled through the white skull â right from his temple, where Smoke had positioned the pistol.
âShe was worthier than that.â Blood splashed on Smokeâs shirt, splattered on his cold face when he pulled another trigger on the doctorâs chest. Then his abdomen, two on his face.
He fisted pack of bills, crouched and stuffed them brutally inside the deadmanâs mouth. âYou want it? Right? Those American dollars bills? Come on take it.â
Smokeâs vendetta last all night.
It was with broken ribs that Stack finally found him â hidden behind Annieâs shack, holding her blue scarf.
âCome on Smoke. We ainât dying there.â Stack held his half-dead brother by the shoulders. âJust get in there.â He positioned him in the back of their truck. âWe outta town. Come on, you can make it.â
Lies.
Few miles away, when they finally free themselves from their assailants. Stack parked right beside a giant tree and opened the truckâs roll-up door.
âLet, get you some water, Smââ
Words died in Stackâs throat. He approached his twinâs calm and shut face.
Elijah was cold, a cocky grin drawing his lips â fingers loose around the blue fabric.
âYou got your head on her fat ass tits, right now huh.â Stack mumbled, draping his brother with a canvas tarp.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
"i fell in love with you while i was undercover and i know youâre mad at me for lying but i have to go back to my old life (and i want you to be in it)" for Damerey
Warning: Full AngstÂ
Rey slammed the trunk of her crappy old car shut and shouldered her grocery bag. Hitching her too loose pants up her bony hips, she walked to the sidewalk, her legs aching and tired, keys loose in her hands.
The back of her neck prickled and she stiffened, her foot freezing in mid-air.
âRey?â
âBugger off.â Rey didnât turn around and continued walking.Â
âPlease talk to me.â
âMmm. No.â Reyâs hand itched for her staff, the one she kept inside her door, the one usually reserved for hiking or poking at suspicious lumps behind her trash cans. She stalked up her overgrown path and up her crumbling cinderblock steps to her door and fumbled with her keys, her heart pounding in her ears.
âSunsh-â
âNo.â Rey whirled around and glared at him, glared at the handsome man standing on the walkway in front of her steps, not two feet from her. âDonât - call me that.â
âRey, then.â He rubbed his jaw - clean shaven, and Reyâs heart ached at the sight. Heâd only ever had a beard, before. âCan we talk?â
âThatâs what weâre doing right now.â Rey turned back around and flipped him the bird. âAnd now Iâm leaving you out here, so you can rot in Hell on your own time.â
She shoved her door open and gripped her grocery bag tightly, disappearing inside and slamming the door shut behind her. Rey stormed into the kitchen and dumped out her meager pickings onto the counter, angrily putting away the cans of soup, the bag of rice, the beans, slamming her cupboard more than she probably should.
There was a knock at the door. Rey quietly screamed through her teeth and glared at the sink, waiting for the knocking to end. It did, but only for a minute, and it was louder then. She gripped the counter and grumbled to herself and then dragged her hands through her hair. âFine.â
The knocking was still going on when she wrenched the door back open, and he at least had the decency to look sheepish. âSorry, I just-â
âCome in.â Rey jerked her head towards the front room, and he shuffled in. He stepped out of his shoes - office shoes, Rey thought bitterly, shiny and nice and expensive, a far cry from the beat-up sneakers that she always loved seeing by her door - and stood there awkwardly in his pressed button down and nice pants. âCanât have you on my step, carrying on, bothering the neighbors.â
âGuess not.â He smiled bashfully, and she had to admit, his smile didnât look any different. Rey didnât know what to do with that information. âLook, I came to explain-â
âExplain what?â Rey demanded, her hands on her hips. âHow you lied to me?â
âWell, yes, butâ - he winced -Â âI mean, I had to, to protect you-â
âSpare me the bullshit, Nathan.â His face fell instantly, and Reyâs throat tightened. She looked away from him, at the ever-growing water spot on her wall and blinked away tears. âI guess thatâs sort of the problem, isnât it? Youâre not Nathan.â
âMy name is Poe,â he said softly. âPoe-â
â-Dameron. I got that, yeah.â Rey tossed her hair out and snorted. âAt least, thatâs what they told me when I got hauled in for questioning.â She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. âThat was a real fun throwback to being thrown in juvie. Nice touch. Loved it.â
âI didnât think theyâdâŠâ Poe pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled noisily, eyes shut. âI told them you werenât part of it, that you had no idea.â
âNo idea that my boss - or, you know, my foster father - was running a drug ring out of the back of the chop shop he forced me to work in?â Rey sat heavily on her threadbare sofa and glowered at the carpet, for a change in scenery. âI mean, I wasnât surprised.â
âProbably not the best way to find out,â Poe sat down on the coffeetable in front of her (but coffee table was being too charitable when it was just a large plank of plywood on a few milk crates). âIâm so sorry.â
âSorry that my entire life is shot to shit?â Rey quirked an eyebrow but didnât look up. âOr sorry that you fucking lied to me for eight months?â
âBoth?â She did glare at him then, and he offered her an irritatingly charming smile. âIt can be both, right?â
âYou donât get it.â Rey shook her head miserably and drew her knees up to her chest, becoming as small as possible. âYou think you can just waltz in here and fuck around in my life and then ⊠and then say sorry and make a joke, and Iâll forgive you?â
âNo, thatâs not what-â
âOh, so funny, Iâm sure you and your little men in black friends will be chuckling around the water color on Monday, laughing about the poor, pathetic girl you manipulated-â
â-Rey, please-â
â-and dragged down into the shit to get what you wanted, laughing away about how easy it was, how pathetic she was, how happy she was that a nice person was finally paying attention to her.â Rey wiped a flat hand across her face, angrily smearing her tears out of her eyes, and followed it with a miserable swipe under her nose. âWell, fuck you, and fuck them - but fuck you most of all.â
âIâm so, so sorry.â He sounded genuine, but then again, she knew he was good at faking it. âAnd believe me, that is not how I see you. Youâre so much more than that, you have no idea what I see when I look at you.âÂ
âA mark?â Rey offered bitterly, and she shook her head and didnât let him explain himself when he tried. âNo, no, thatâs exactly what I was to you. You walked into that shop on the first day, and you saw me, and you thought what everyone else thinks, you thought oh, what a sad little nobody, and you took advantage of that.â She balled herself up even further, nearly spitting the words out in her rage, but whether it was directed at the man in front of her or herself was beyond her knowledge. âAnd you found out that I knew Unkar the best, that I knew his tells, and his habits, and you just wormed your way in, and convinced me you cared about me, that you gave a damn, and then you were able to get what you wanted.â
âThat isnât how it went down,â Poe protested, but Rey felt something very cold settle in her stomach.
âWould they have given you a bonus if weâd slept together?â Rey glared at her knees and then at him, and she was mildly pleased through her cold fury to see that he was stricken. âTell me. Did you put it into your report that you seduced me?â
âNo.â Poe wiped a hand down his face and leaned over his knees, looking green. âFuck no, God, that makes me feel sick-â
âIs that why you wouldnât have sex with me?â Reyâs mouth fell open for a second, and new anger surged in.Â
âYeahâŠâ His eyes were red-rimmed now, and he rubbed his neck. âI mean, definitely. I couldnâtâŠnot when I wasâŠâ
âLying,â Rey finished for him. âWell, then.â She laughed semi-hysterically. âFucking shit, you had me thinking you found me so repulsive, you didnât want to sleep with me.â
âJesus Christ.â Poe tore at his hair. âThat is the exact opposite-â
âI donât see how you could have lied,â Rey cleared her throat and threaded her fingers together, squeezing them tightly, âthat whole time. I canât - eight months, and youâŠyou came over almost every night the last few months. You let me fall asleep on your shoulder. I donât even see how that would have helped you toâŠâ A thought occurred to her, a small, nagging idea that maybe he does mean it, but she shoved it viciously away. âYou must be the worldâs greatest liar.â
âIâm really not. I was seconds away from blowing my cover when I was with you, all the time, for at least three months now. And that is in the reports. My boss made me stick it out âtil the end, but I requested to be pulled off the case when I realized that IâdâŠâ He trailed off and turned bright red.Â
âThat youâd what?â Rey scoffed. âGotten in too deep? Hadnât counted on me not being as useful as you needed?â
âI asked to be extracted when I realized I was in love with you.â Poe clenched his fists on his knees. âI am in love with you. Present tense. And I came here today to tell you that, and to beg you to come with me. You donât have to stay here in Jakku, Rey, you can leave, Unkar canât control you now.â
âYou donât love me.â Rey shook her head, and mortifyingly, her composure chose this moment to collapse, and she started to cry, angry, hot, furious tears. Poe made a noise of agony and lurched forward, no doubt to comfort her, and Rey held a hand up to stop him. He froze, his hand not three inches from her knee. âYou donât. You lied to me.â She covered her mouth with her hand and sobbed once, twice, trying to get it under control.
âI didnât want to,â Poe pleaded with her, his brown eyes mournful and not exactly dry either. âFuck, please believe me, it killed me to lie to you. And - other than my job, and my name, everything else, that was me. That was me who watched movies with you, and listened to records with you, and drove around with you when you were too upset to sit still. It was me who kissed you, who fell asleep next to you, who woke up next to you. I fell in love with you, and that wasnât a lie. Who I was when I was with you, that was real.â
âYou..kissed me,â Rey said faintly, rubbing her temples. âAndâŠand you told me you cared about me.â Poe looked up, hope in his eyes.Â
âAnd I meant what I said then.â Poe slid off the coffee table to kneel at her feet, and he grabbed her hands, rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles. âThat I appreciated everything about you, and I valued you so, so much, and you make me so happy-â
âYou made me fall in love with you,â Rey said. âI fell in love with you.â Poeâs expression brightened almost painfully. But Rey shook her head, and she threw her hands off of hers with a quick movement. âNo. I fell in love with Nathan.â  She stood up and began to walk away from him. âAnd he isnât even real.â
âRey, please-â
âGet out of my house.â She glared out the window towards the back alley behind her home, and she didnât move a muscle until she heard the door shut quietly - she didnât move when she heard an agonized please, she didnât move when she heard his breath catch in a sob, she didnât move when her heart begged her to, begged her to go to the person whoâd betrayed her, whoâd made her feel so awful, who she was pretty sure she loved -Â
But when the door clicked shut, Rey collapsed to her knees and sobbed as though she could actually feel her heart split in two.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
The docks stank of rotting fish and spilled whiskey, Lake Michigan's brackish water lapping against the wooden pilings with a rhythm that reminded Smoke too much of home : Delta's gentle persistence against muddy banks where he'd once fished with Stack, back when their biggest worry was avoiding their father's leather belt.
Now he crouched behind a stack of shipping crates, gun heavy in his palm.
The Irish boys were late, which meant either they were being careful or they'd gotten wind of what was waiting for them. Either way, Smoke's nerves stretched taut tensely.
The fog rolled off the lake thick as cotton, muffling sounds and blurring the amber glow of the streetlamps. Perfect weather for quiet work, as the Don called it. Perfect for making men disappear.
Stack had tried to dissuade him from going alone. "Let me handle this one, Smoke," he had said, adjusting the collar of the expensive suit the Family had bought him.
As if they didn't reduce him to sell asses and bound young women to the dark corners of The Red Hallway.
"You still got that look in your eyes, Smoke. Ain't no good for this job"
He wasn't wrong. Smoke saw them ghosts everywhere now. Not just Imany's stiff face, but the German boys he had killed in the trenches, their blood seeping into French grounds while their mothers waited for letters that would never come.
"Ain't you got sum pussies to play with ?" That what Smoke had shot back at his twin before leaving.
The rumble of truck engines cut through the fog, headlights sweeping across the warehouse walls like searchlights in a prison yard. Three vehicles, just like Don Julius predicted. Smoke counted shadows moving in the amber beams : six men, maybe seven. More than the three expected, but not enough to change the outcome of the night.
His finger found the trigger's familiar curve, muscle memory from countless nights in no-man's land where hesitation measured the difference between living and dying. The first truck ground to a halt near the warehouse entrance.
"Jesus Christ ! Danny, you sure this is the right place ?" The voice carried across the water, thick with Irish accent and nervous chuckle. "Feels like we're walking into shit."
"Shut your mouth and start unloading," another voice snapped back. "Capone's boys ain't got the balls to move on us. They're all talk and fancy suits."
Wrong assumption. Smoke's lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile, more like an empty grin.
He watched them work, noting the way Danny, the leader, kept one hand near his coat pocket where the bulge of a pistol pressed against the wool fabric. Nice move. Unfortunately the man wasn't smart enough.
The crates came out heavy, and from the care they took handling them, Smoke guessed they contained more than just bootleg whiskey. Weapons, maybe. Or drugs : Cocaine and heroin. Either way, it was contraband that wouldn't see sunrise.
Movement to his left caught his attention. Two more figures emerged from the fog : Capone's boys, positioned as planned. Smoke recognized Rocco's stocky silhouette and Vince's thin frame. The two bastards were planted at right distance. In any case things went wrong, they'll be the first to back off and survive.
The trap was set. Smoke waited for the signal. A ship's horn sang across the water.
Smoke got up from his crouch, the wooden crates providing cover as he moved closer. His footsteps fell silent on the wet planks, years of hunting in Mississippi swamps having taught him how to move like mist through dangerous territory. If not he would've simply been dead by snakes venoms. His gun weight felt natural, an extension of his own hand rather than a foreign object.
"Fuckâ!" The shout explode through the night. "Danny, we got company!"
Too late. Smoke was already moving, his first shot taking out the lookout before the man could draw his weapon. The bullet punched through the Irish boy's chest, sending him spinning backward into the lake.
Chaos erupted. Muzzle flashes lit the fog, bullets whining off metal surfaces and splintering wooden crates. The Irish boys dove for cover, their confident bravado evaporating under gunfire's heat.
Smoke moved nonchalantly with the same cold efficiency that had kept him breathing during the war.
Breathe. Aim. Fire. Kill.
"You fucking coward !" Danny's voice roared above the gunfire. "Face me like a man !"
Smoke gulped. He stopped being one year and months ago.
He had tried being a man : loving his wife, protecting his family, building something decent in Delta. Look where that had gotten him. His daughter died, his wife became an empty shell, his brother started messing with rough niggas so he had to clean his wrongs.
Being a killer was simpler. No promises to break, no hearts to disappoint.
Danny stumbled around a shipping container, blood running from a wound in his shoulder, pistol shaking in his grip. When he saw Smoke emerge from the fog, the Irish boy's face twisted with rage and desperate fear.
"You one of Capone's niggers?" He spat,"Figured that bastard would send animals to do his dirty work."
The slur should have stung, but Smoke felt nothing. He had heard worse from countrymen in Mississippi and foreigners in France. Slurs hit the heart and pride. Too bad Smoke ain't got none left. He wasn't talkative because his bullets talked for him.
"Nothing personal," Smoke said, flatly."Just doin' my job."
Danny raised his gun, but his wounded arm made him slow. Smoke's shot his skull, the impact lifting the Irish boy off his feet and dropping him onto the wet planks like a discarded puppet.
The docks fell silent except for water lapping against wood and the distant sound of sirens, still blocks away, but growing closer. The other Irish boys lay scattered among the crates, their blood mixing with lake water and spilled whiskey.
Rocco and Vince emerged from their positions, already moving to clean up the mess. They worked with practiced efficiency, gathering weapons and checking pockets for identification before the bodies took their final swim in Lake Michigan.
"Nice work, Smoke," Rocco said, reloading his pistol with thick fingers. "With you twins now, we got brighter days ahead for la famiglia"
Smoke gave him a cold gaze. He holstered his weapon and walked away, leaving the Italians to their grisly housekeeping. His job was done.
Back in his rented room above a South Side speakeasy, Smoke sat on the edge of his narrow bed, cleaning his pistol by lamplight. The routine calmed him : disassembly, inspection, oil, reassembly. Mechanical precision that required no emotional investment.
Stack hadn't returned yet. His twin was probably charming white wealthy women at one of the upscale clubs the Family operated, recruiting poor colored southern women to work at the brothel or playing cards and sharing expensive whiskey with men who thought blacks couldn't possibly be dangerous.
Through the thin walls, jazz music drifted up from the speakeasy below. Trumpet and piano, saxophone weaving melodies that spoke of love and loss and the particular kind of sadness that came from living in a world that had no place for people like them. The music reminded him of Annie's humming : the way she had sing old spirituals chants while cooking, her voice sweet as cane syrup.
He wondered if she was still alive. If illness had claimed her like it had claimed so many others in the Delta. There was that time in year where malaria, typhoid, tuberculosis ravaged homes in the town. And Annie and him were living close the swamps so it was helpless.
He wondered if she still tended Imany's grave, if she still cursed his name in her prayers, if she had found someone else to hold her through the fever dreams. He wouldn't be mad. Jealous inevitably, passionately. But not resentful. He had no right to feel that way.
The whiskey bottle on his nightstand called him to a promising temporary amnesia, but Smoke had learned that alcohol made nothing good. Getting drunk wouldn't erase his grief, Annie's tears echoing in his head.
A knock interrupted his brooding. Stack's voice called through the door: "Smoke ? You in there ?"
He entered looking expensive and smelling of women's perfume.
That white woman working as Capone associate â Katherine Murphy, he was under her rules. It only been a day and that nigga was acting jolly. All sweet and syrupy. Well, women had such effects on Stack. Especially when they were powerful and rich.
"Heard you return quick" he said, sitting on a chair nearby.
"So you left women's heat and slick to come hug your twin. How cute" Smoke rolled his eyes.
"Yes and ?" Stack stuck out the toothpick he had in mouth, "don't get me wrong. I love working surrounded of fat asses but yes...I wanted to check on you..."
"Ain't got nothing to worry 'bout." Smoke answered, lighting a cigarette. "It's a new start. Let's get shit right this time." He said, his gaze hollow.
Smoke wasn't made of big words. The mischievous yet shy twin Stack grew up with died years ago.
That nightmarish night, Annie got horrendous abdominal contractions and Smoke feared their baby wouldn't make it so he held her to the White's hospital knowing they could save his family.
He had the money, no field coins â real Americans dollars. Yet they still refused to take his bleeding wife in.
Since that night, he saw his stillborn baby and soulless woman. Smoke changed.
Stack understood. His brother didn't want to chi-chat. Not today and certainly not ever. His fraternal embrace and warning stares were enough to remind Stack of their strong bond.
The black pimp rose up, then at the door of the room, he paused. "You ever think about going back ? To Mississippi...to Annie ?"
Smoke puffed grey clouds off his cigarette and closed his eyes, seeing her face as he had last glimpsed it : asleep in their bed, peaceful in a way she had never been. Smoke had memorized every detail : the way her charcoal coiled hair spread across the pillow, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the small dark spot on her back from sickness that healed too late.
"Can't go back to something that ain't there no more," Smoke responded. "That man she married, Elijah, he died the night our daughter did. What's left ain't nothing she would like to see."
Stack nodded slowly. They had both left pieces of themselves in Mississippi. "Get some sleep, I'm on duty at The Red Hallway tonight. Goin back late. Imma bring some liquor"
After his twin left, Smoke pulled out the small leather pouch that still hung around his neck : Annie's mojo bag, red flannel faded to pink. Inside, were roots and herbs she has blessed with her grandmother's prayers, small bones carved with protective symbols, a lock of her hair braided with his own.
He pressed the mojo bag to his lips, the same gesture he had seen Annie make countless times when she prayed. For the first time since leaving Delta, he opened his heart :
"Annie, if you can hear me across all this distance, if the spirits you pray still convey messages between the living and the lost..I'm sorry. Sorry for running when you needed me most. Sorry for naming our daughter without asking. Sorry for becoming someoneâsomething you would never recognize."
His lips trembled, refusing to let the bag go, as if they were, for the first time since ages, embracing the warmth of the woman they used to kiss amorously under the moon's curious eyes.
Jazz music from downstairs had shifted to something more mournful. A woman's voice joined the piano, singing about trains that carried loved ones away and left nothing but empty tracks stretching toward horizons that promised everything and gave nothing.
Smoke listened until the music stopped, until the speakeasy closed and the building settled into silence. Then he fell asleep on the bed, window opened, welcoming the night's winds.
Morpheus dragged him back to Delta. In their wooden shack.
Here Annie was. Laid on their old mattress, quilt pulled up to her chin, but it couldn't stop the shaking. Her rich obsidian skin had lost its vitality, her breathing came in shallow, rattling gasps.
Her lips, once full and warm against his own, were now cracked and dried, moving soundlessly as if she was trying to speak words that wouldn't come.
"Annie," he whispered, reaching for her across the bed that seemed to stretch wider with each passing moment.
"Baby, hold on." But his hands passed through her. He could see the sweat beading on her forehead, could hear the wet rattle in her chest as the sickness consumed her from within, but he couldn't touch her, couldn't comfort her, couldn't do nothing but watch.
Her eyes, still beautiful despite the illness, found his face. There was no anger in them, no blame, just a terrible, infinite sadness and something that looked like forgiveness he didn't deserve.
"You came back my love" she said, her lids dangerously closing "I kept your place warm. Welcome back home, Elijah"
Then he woke up. Sweat dripping on his face. Palms soggy and a knot in his stomach.
"Pleaseâ no !" He begged, his face pressing into his hands.
General Tag List :
I tag you because you might have comment on my general tag list for the stories I put there ! đ if you want to be removed, just tell me friend !
Disclaimer: The original work belong to Ryan Coogler, Writer and Director of the incredible horror/socio-historical film named Sinners (2025). All right reserved to Ryan Coogler and Zinzi Coogler. The content writing here is a fanfiction.
Summary : Annie's world shattered the night she delivered her daughter stillborn. Months later, nothing feels the same. Her husband Elijah turned distant, colder. When he started returning home bloody without wound, Annie realized her marriage wouldn't be the only thing at risk.
âââââââââââââââ
The genre of this fanfiction : Angst.
This story is mainly angst. I will write minimal smut ( non over explicit ) and fluff only when it's necessary (mostly family bonding). This is a Smoke x Annie fiction along with secondary couple. I estimate twenty chapters overall (but I might get carried away, I'm sorry In advance) .
1â Imany
2â Soulmates and strangers
3 â Home Sweet Home
4 â A manâs agony
5 â Cocoa Sweet
6 â Evil deed
7 â No freedom
8 â Lady Josephine
9 â Her prayers
10 â Dames and wits
General Tag List :
I tag you there because you might have comment on my general tag list for the stories I put there ! đ if you would like to be removed, just tell me friend !
Stack woke to sunlight cutting through the thin curtains, painting harsh lines across the empty bed.
His head throbbed. His mouth tasted sour from the alcohol heâd drunk. For a moment he just laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together whether last night had been real or some fever dream brought on by too much alcohol and not enough sense.
Then he moved his right hand and pain lanced through his knuckles.
He sat up slowly, cradling his hand. The skin was split across his knuckles, crusted with dried blood. Bruises bloomed purple and black across the rest of his hand, spreading up toward his wrist.
The wall near the door showed the damage: splintered wood with dark crimson stains.
It had been real then.
All of it.
Stack pushed himself upright, swaying slightly as his feet hit the floor. The room spun before settling. He crossed to the basin in the corner, floorboards creaking under his weight.
The water in the pitcher had taken on a strange color but he splashed it on his face anyway, scrubbing at his eyes until they stopped burning.
âI need a drink,â he muttered to his reflection.
No. What Stack really needed was Luberta. He needed to see her. Needed to explainâthough what heâd explain, he had no idea.
He dressed, leaving the wine-colored shirt crumpled on the floor, pulling on a plain sleeveless brown one instead.
When he finally made his way downstairs, the boarding house was already busy.
The common area buzzed with conversation and the clatter of dishes. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes that danced lazy in the air. The smell of frying bacon and bitter coffee filled the space, mixing with the sweeter scent of biscuits baking.
Three tables were occupied: field workers mostly, spending their morning wages on hot food and company before heading out to their labor. Two women Stack didnât recognize moved between the tables, laughing at something one of the men said.
And there, coming from the kitchen with a tray balanced on one hip, was Luberta.
Stack froze at the bottom of the stairs.
She wore a plain gray dress, shapeless and worn thin at the elbows. Her hair was wrapped in a faded blue scarf, a few coils escaping at her temples. She wasnât wearing any jewelry. Luberta had never been the type to shine aggressively. She was plain.
Still, Stackâs eyes found her immediately.
She set the tray down at the nearest table: two men in dusty overalls who barely glanced up from their food. Her movements were careful, practiced. She smiled when one of them grunted his thanks.
That practiced and painful smile.
Then she turned toward the kitchen and her eyes swept across the room: easy, casual, unfocused until they landed on him.
For one heartbeat, their gazes locked.
Stack saw her stiffen, something flickering across her face: recognition, memory, something that might have been fear, longing, or both.
Then her expression turned blank. She looked away, right through him like he was a mere furniture, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
His jaw tightened.
Stack took a table in the corner, with a clear view of the kitchen door. When Claudine came by â tall and lean with knowing eyes â he ordered coffee.
âAnything to eat, sugar?â She had a notebook in her hand, pencil poised.
âJust coffee.â
âYou sure? we got fresh biscuits, crispy baconââ
âCoffeeâs fine sweetheart. Thank you.â
Claudine shrugged and headed back toward the kitchen. Stack watched the door swing open, caught a glimpse of Luberta inside near the stove, then the door swung shut again.
Claudine returned a few minutes later with a chipped mug of coffee so thick it was almost black.
The morning crawled through time. The field workers finished their meals and left, replaced by an older couple who ate quietly. Two of the carnal workers moved through the place like dancers, practiced and efficient.
But not Luberta.
She stayed in the kitchen.
Stack drank his coffee, keeping his eyes on that door.
Finally, at mid-morning, she emerged carrying a bucket and rags. She crossed to one of the empty tables and started wiping it down, her movements quick and thorough.
Stack set his mug down and stood.
Lubertaâs head jerked up. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, then she grabbed her bucket and disappeared through a side door.
Stack sucked his teeth and sat back down.
His hands curled into fists on the table. The right one throbbed where the skin had split.
By noon, heâd drunk too much cups of coffee and glasses of corn liquor so his nerves were singing the blues.
Luberta had appeared and disappeared many time.
Once to bring out a fresh jar of water to a group of guys.
Another to clear the older coupleâs dishes â Stack had stood to approach her and sheâd already turned away, heading back to the kitchen before he could reach her.
He had opened his mouth to call her name and Francine had intervened.
âYou need sumâ son?â
âNo maâam.â
âGood. âCause if you planning to bother my girls while they working, we gonna have a problem.â
Stack had sat back down under the old womanâs scrutiny.
And through it all, Luberta had moved like smoke: present but unreachable.
Stack watched her serve a young man who couldnât have been more than eighteen. She laughed at something he said, that bright fake laugh that made Stackâs jaw clench. Obviously he peeped at the way that boy tracked down her body when she turned away.
The lunch crowd came and went. The common area filled with bodies, noises and the smell of fried chicken and collard greens.
Stack kept drinking, more and more.
He wasnât trying to get drunkânot exactly. Just trying to take the edge off the buzzing in his head, the constant awareness of her presence, the way his eyes followed her everywhere without his permission.
Another thing: the whiskey didnât help. If anything, it made it worse.
âYou good handsome?â
Stack blinked. One of the boarding houseâs women was standing beside his table, eyebrows raised, hands on her hips.
âYeah. Fine.â
âHmm, you sure? Ainât nothing seemed right on ya face.â
Stack sucked his teeth, rolled his eyes and took another shot of whiskey, ignoring the woman.
Elise flicked her gaze toward the kitchen door, then back to him. âOh. I see.â
âNah gal you ainât see shit.â
âMmhmm.â She picked up his empty glass and sniffed it. âHow much you got?â
âNot enough.â
âRespectfully, I think you got plenty.â She didnât take the bottle away. Just set his glass back down and walked off.
By early afternoon, the boarding house was near empty. Some of the girls busied themselves with their regulars, others cleaning tables.
Luberta had ignored Stack all day.
Like he didnât exist.
Like last night hadnât happened.
He was seriously considering walking over there, forcing her to acknowledge him, when the door opened and an old man walked in.
Stack recognized him immediately. Heâd been in the queue yesterday: rotund and chestnut-skinned, wearing a shirt that strained across his belly and large pants that somehow clung to his short legs.
âMadam Francine!â He called. âItâs Duveaud.â
The old man went straight to Francineâs desk. She looked up from her ledger. âNo need to scream Mr. Duveaud. I heard you. Afternoon.â
âAh! Old friend.â He tipped his hat. âIâm in very need of my wild flower.â He grinned wide, foolishly.
Stackâs facial features twisted. He worked his jaw, gritting his teeth.
His wild flower?
HIS wild flower?
Stackâs lungs constricted, unable to catch air. His fists under the table cracked, opening his dried knucklesâ wounds.
At the counter, Francineâs attitude didnât change but something shifted in her posture. âIâm afraid Luberta ainât available today Mr. Duveaud.â
âJust what I said. Maybe come after this week. Sheâll be less busy.â
âBusy, huh?â The old man slammed on the counter. âWith who?â
âThat ainât your business, old man.â Francine returned her attention back to her book.
âThe hell it ainât!â His voice rose. Several heads turned. âI came yesterday I couldnât get her, you know damn well thatââ
âStop yappinâ in my ears please.â Francine rolled her eyes. âI got Elise available, or Claudine if you want to wait about twenty minutesââ
âNO!â Duveaud slammed his palm on the desk. âI want whatâs MINE.â
The room had gone quiet. Even the customers pretended not to listen while hanging on every word.
âMr. Duveaud.â Francine squinted her eyes then stood, looming her tall figure over the short rotund man. âYou need to lower your voice in my house. Luberta is busy. Not tonight or tomorrow and even after. You can choose one of my other girls or leave. And I dare you to raise your voice at me again.â
Duveaudâs face grew ugly, darkened with anger and embarrassment. He glanced around the room, peeped at the people, and suddenly remembered where he was.
âThis is bad business, Francine,â he said, quieter but no less angry. âReal bad business.â
âThen take yours elsewhere.â
For a moment, Stack thought the old man might actually leave. He turned toward the door, took two stepsâand at that exact moment Luberta appeared from the kitchen.
She was carrying a pitcher of sweet tea and was focused on not spilling as she navigated around a chair someone had left pulled out.
Duveaud saw her.
His whole stance changed. The anger faded into something else.
âThere she is,â he barked. âThereâs my girl.â
Lubertaâs head snapped up. The pitcher wobbled in her hands.
Stack watched the scene unfold in slow motion. First, her eyes spotted the old man, recognizing his uneasy presenceâthen strangely her usual fake smile didnât appear on her face. Instead, her eyes wavered, she pinched her lips, her fingers twitching around the pitcher.
âSir,â she mumbled. âIâIâm sorry, I didnât know you was coming today. If I had, I wouldâveââ
âOh my sweet darling.â Duveaud was already moving toward her, ignoring Francineâs warning glare. âYou wouldâve made sure you was available for me right? Instead of that nigga who got money to throw around?â
He reached her. Luberta set the pitcher down on the nearest table with shaking hands.
âI didnât know someone had alreadyââ
âNo matter at all.â Duveaudâs hands went to her waist, fingers spreading wide, pulling her toward him. âBeen thinking about you all week gal. This bodyâŠall this softness.â
Luberta fixed a smile on her face but Stack saw her shoulders hunch inward, hands flutter uselessly at her sides like trapped birds.
âLet âem watch.â His right hand slid up her side, fingers digging into the fat there, kneading it. âMaybe they need to know who you belong to.â
His other hand dropped lower, cupping her ass through her dress and squeezing hard.
Stack saw red.
âAll this here,â Duveaud continued, his hand roaming from her side to her breast, groping it, âall this wasted on some bastard who got money to burn. Should be mine. You know that, donât you girl?â
âYes sir.â Lubertaâs voice had gone thin and breathy. âIâm sorry sir.â
âYou should be.â He pulled her closer, his belly pressing against hers, his face buried in her neck. Stack could see his mouth moving, see Lubertaâs eyes squeeze shut. âAll week I been waiting. All week thinking about these hips, this ass, these big soft tittiesââ
His hand squeezed her breast again, rougher.
ââand you gonna tell me I canât have it?â
âIâm notâI didnât meanââ Luberta was struggling to keep her voice steady. âIt wasnât my choice, Mr. Duveaud. If it was up to meââ
âDamn right it should be up to you.â His hand slid from her breast down to her stomach. âNext week you make sure you available for old Duveaud, you hear? Maybe I pay extra. Get you for the whole night instead of just a couple hours.â
He grabbed a handful of her hip, her side, her backside againâlike he was testing produce at market.
âWhat you think about that, hmm? You want old Duveaud to take care of you proper?â
âThat would be⊠that would be real kind of you, sir.â
âYeah. Remember who treats you good.â
âYes sir. Thank you sir.â
The old man finally released her, stepping back with a satisfied grunt. He straightened his shirt, adjusted his hat.
âUntil then pretty doll.â
âYes sir.â
He turned and walked toward the door, tipping his hat to Francine as he passed. âWeâll settle this next week, Miss Francine. I expect better service.â
Then he was gone.
The door closed behind him.
The common area stayed quiet for a moment. Then it buzzed again with folks returning to their own affairs.
Luberta stood bogged down, where Duveaud had left her, her hands flattening down her dress, pulling the fabric back into place where heâd bunched it up around her hips. Her practiced smile remained but her eyes had gone empty.
Hurriedly she returned to the kitchen without glancing at anyone.
Stackâs chair scraped loud against the floor. The sharp noise was followed by his footsteps rushing to the exit door.
Behind him, he heard Francine call his name.
He ignored her.
That old man didnât go as far as he shouldâve gone. It was easy to track him down.
Stackâs hands were shaking. Even though he shoved them in his pockets to hide it, he could feel the tremor running through his whole body.
Was the whiskey too harsh this time?
No, he was pissed. Enraged.
All he could see was Duveaudâs hands on Lubertaâgrabbing and squeezing her. That bastard even talked to her like she was fucking goods on Sunday market.
Stack kept his distance, trailing a few meters behind the rotund man. Duveaud seemed oblivious, humming to himself as he walked.
The street was animated: women carrying baskets, men hauling crates, children darting between legs. Stack wove through the mazeâdangerously quietâkeeping Duveaud in sight.
They passed a laundromat, a juke joint, some food spots and a tiny church with a crooked steeple.
Duveaud turned left at the corner.
Stack followed.
The old man stopped in front of a general store. He unlocked it and stepped inside. Through the window, Stack saw him greet a younger man behind the counter: employee or family, hard to tell.
Stack leaned against the wall of the building across the streetâbeside some men who were already sitting and smoking.
The sun climbed higher, beating down relentlessly. Sweat gathered at his collar but he didnât move. Didnât look away from that store window.
One of the men beside him offered a cigarette. Stack declined with his usual cocky grin.
Customers drifted in and out. Numerous, chatty, their hands full of fruits, vegetables and random things.
Hours later, the younger man stepped out the store â leaving.
Stack straightened.
Through the window, he saw Duveaud moving around inside. Counting money. Cleaning shelves. Calling the name of someone â his wife maybe or child.
Stack waited another five minutes.
Then walked around the building to get inside from the back.
Unfortunately for the old man, his store back door was shamefully opened.
Stack stood in the threshold for a moment, watching Duveaudâs hunched back, then he waved between shelves silently and grabbed the man by the collar.
With incredible force he spun him around.
âWhat theââ
Stack slammed him against one sturdy hardwood shelf. Duveaudâs back cracked, the jangling keys around his belt, fell on the floor.
âWhoâwho are you? What do you want?â
Stackâs lips twitched but he bothered not to answer. He drew his fist back and drove it into Duveaudâs face.
The old manâs nose crunched, spitting blood.
âMoneyââ Duveaud panicked under Stackâs hold, struggling to get his hands in his pockets. âYou can have my moneyâ please donâtââ
Stack hit him again. His fist crushed the old manâs mouth.
Duveaud felt his teeth cracking off his bloody agonizing gums.
âShut your ass up.â
Stack grabbed the manâs shirt front, dragged him outside the store and threw him into the back alley. Dubeaud stumbled, caught himself against a stack of crates before trying to run.
Stack caught him by the back of his collar and yanked him backward. He slammed him against the opposite wall.
âAAAGHâPlease!â The old man was crying now, blood and spit running down his chin. âI dunno whatcha want but please take it! I doâdonât even know you, why you doing that to me.â
âThe womanâŠâ Stack hushed, advancing on him. âYou groped like a pig this afternoon. Luberta. She mine.â
Duveaudâs swollen eyes widened, yet he still decided to fool around. âWho? I donâtââ
Stack kicked him in the stomach, then his back while the man contorted in pain.
He grabbed Duveaud again and punched his jaw.
âDonât lie to me. The delta woman at Francineâs...â
âYouâyouâŠâ the words caught in the store ownerâs mouth.
âThatâs right.â
âBut I didnâtâI wasnât gonnaââ He was gasping, Stackâs hand on his throat, cutting off his air. âI just wanted toâsheâs just a whore, man, I ainât mean nothing byââ
Stack slammed Duveaud injured head against the wall again. âSay that again. See what happens.â
The man head spun, his eyes getting blurry at the edges, blood smeared around his mouth, his broken ribs lancing. âIâIâm sorry..Iâm sorryâŠâ He trailed off.
Stack loosened his grip slightly. Let Duveaud suck in a wheezing breath.
âYou fucker like putting hands on women, huh?â
âI paid forââ
âHuh?â
Stack released Duveaud on the ground and pulled his gun from the holster at his hip.
âNo. No no no, please, I got a wife, I got childrenââ
âShouldâve thought about that before putting your hands on her.â
Stack cocked the hammer.
âPlease!â Duveaud was sobbing, curling into himself. âIâll do anything! Anything you want! Iâll pay youâIâll never go back thereâIâll leave townââ
âOh. Interesting.â Stack crouched down, pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. âYou do everything?â
âYes! Yes, everything!â
âThatâs cool uncle. You donât go back to Francineâs. Not next week. Not ever. You donât ask about Luberta. You donât say her name. You donât even think about her. You understand?â
âYes! I understand! I wonâtâIâll neverââ
âAnd if I hear you been spreading what happened here tonightââ Stack pressed the gun harder against his skull. âIf I hear you been running your mouthâŠI will find you. Iâm very good at finding people.â He cockily grinned. âAnd when Iâll find youâŠI wonât just scratch your face.. Next time Iâll put a bulletâŠâ he puffed, mimicking bullets sounds. ââŠright between your eyes. Are we clear?â
âClear! Weâre clear! I wonât say nothing! I swear to God!â
Stack held him there for a moment longer, letting the fear sink deep in his bones.
âGood.â
Stack stood up, took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up.
He uncocked the hammer and holstered his gun.
Duveaud stayed curled on the ground, whimpering.
That bastard was acting as if he was the victim.
âGet up,â Stack ordered.
âWhat?â
âI said get the fuck up.â
Duveaud struggled to his feet. One eye was swollen shut. Blood poured from his nose and mouth. His shirt was pure red. He could barely stand.
âNow go home,â Stack continued. âClean yourself up. Tell your old lady you got jumped by some boys looking for money. I donât give a fuck. Just tell her some shit. Just you remember what I said.â
âYes sir. Yes!â
â
The boarding house drowned in darkness when Stack pushed through the front door. Francineâs desk sat empty, the ledger closed and the lamp switched off.
He climbed the stairs and was immediately greeted by the boarding house familiar sounds : a rhythmic thumping from the second room on the right, headboard knocking against the wall. A womanâs high-pitched moaning from the left, theatrical and practiced. A manâs grunt along with the creak of bedsprings.
Stack reached his room and pushed the door open.
The space was dim and clean. Someone had come there tidying up everything. They even changed the lamp â the new one was burning on the bedside table, casting yellow light across the floorboards.
Stack headed toward the shower, stripping off his blood-stained shirt. Unbuckled his belt and let his pants fall. Naked, he walked to the corner and pulled the rope.
Water sputtered from the pipe. Came out in burstsâlukewarm and irregular.
He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were crusted dark. The dried blood had gotten into the creases of his fingers, under his nails.
Stack brought his hands together under the water and scrubbed. The split skin on his knuckles stung when the water hit it but he kept scrubbing.
His face was blank, drained of any emotion. He didnât regret it. Not a single punch. Not seeing that bastard eating mud from the ground.
He deserved it.
Stack stepped back off shower, water still dripping down his chest. He grabbed his towel and wiped his face, ran it over his arms, down his legs then wrapped it around his waist.
When he returned to the room, he saw her.
Luberta sat on the edge of his bed.
His eyes went to her face first. She was staring at the floor, her brown eyes fixed on the boards between her feet. Her pouty lips : full, oiled up, dark berries shade were parted lightly as she breathed. Her hair was wrapped in the same faded blue scarf from earlier but some coils had come loose at her temples, curling against her cheeks.
Stack traveled through her facial feature, analyzing her expression, then his gaze dropped.
She wore a white nightgown, so thin, transparent, he could see through it.
Her breasts were voluptuous, large and heavy. The fabric clung to them, shaping them alluringly. Even from where he stood, Stack could see her areolas : deep purple-brown circles wider than her palms.
Her nipples pressed against the cloth, big and swollen. She had her arms crossed over her chest, trying to cover herself, but there was too much to hide. Her breasts spilled over her forearms, their weight pushing down, pulling the neckline lower.
Her stomach folded where she hunched forward. He saw it curves, belly rolls waving and a scar line drawn vertically just below her navel.
His eyes traveled lower. Her thighs pressed together â glazed up, thick and brown against the white cloth. The nightgown had ridden up, bunched where she sat. Through the sheer fabric, he saw the dark patch of her pubic hair : coily and untrimmed. The hairs spread messily across her mound, some of it visible where her thighs didnât quite meet.
Stackâs dick stiffened.
His cock swelled, pushing against the towel. The fabric swayed and hiked. He could feel his Johnson hardening. His length thickened, shaping a prominent bulge.
He tried to adjust making it look less embarrassing.
The room smelled sweet. Vanilla and something baked. It took him a moment to place it â the biscuits. The same smell that had filled the kitchen that morning. Flour and butter and sugar.
Stackâs throat felt tight.
He swallowed.
Luberta still hadnât looked up.
âIââ Her voice came out thin, barely above a whisper. âI should be here.â
She paused. She tried to cover more of herself, but there wasnât enough hands to hide everything.
âYou mah client. Them sayinâ I should sleep there. I told âem you did mistake when you came yesterday and I just a friendâŠâ She twitched her toes on the floor. âI ainât da type ya was lookinâ faâŠbut I
Her shoulders curled inward, head dropping low.
âElise,â Luberta continued, speaking fast. âI seen you two talking earlier. she real pretty. I told herâ asked to come but she busy with someone else and Iââ
Stack watched her chest rising and falling under the nightgown, swaying her breasts with each breath.
He crossed the room, took one blanket folded on the bed and draped it over her frame.
Luberta flinched when the fabric touched her skin. She gripped the edges immediately, pulled it tighter around herself.
Stack sat down beside her on the bed, leaving a foot of space between them. It wouldnât be wise to step close in his current state.
He cleared his throat and started the conversation.
âBertieâŠwhat that old man did today. That happen a lot?â
Lubertaâs shoulders tensed. She kept staring at the floorboards between her bare feet.
âIâm fine. Really.â She smiled bitterly. âMr. Duveaud, he just⊠he get excited sometimes. Ainât mean no harm by it.â
Stack sucked his teeth, grimacing.
âShouldâve killed that nigga,â he mumbled under his breath.
âHm?â
âNothing.â He unclenched his fists.
Luberta nodded unconvinced.
Then, she glanced sideways â Stack was sitting there with that towel wrapped around his waist. The fabric clung to his thighs, water droplets dripping over his chiseled torso, catching in the lamplight like tiny stars against his caramel skin.
His chest rose and fell with each breath. His shoulders were broad, arms thick. He had some pattern inked on his back â Something she didnât recall him bearing.
Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it hurt.
Heat crawled up her neck, prickling across her scalp. Her mouth had gone dry. Her palms were sweating under the blanket.
She couldnât sit there no more.
Not with her body doing things it had no business doing.
Her nipples had gone hard, pressing against the thin fabric of her nightgown. A sudden, unexpected heat warm up between her legs, slicking her inner thighs.
Luberta jerked to her feet. The blanket pooled at her feet. She stumbled but immediately caught herself.
âYouâyou canât just sit there like that,â she stammered, already moving toward his duffel bag with trembling hands. âWhere yourâwhere you keep your clothes at?â
She fumbled with the leather straps, her fingers clumsy. She heard the bed creak and Stack shifted behind her but she didnât look back. Well she was too flustered to hold his gaze anyway.
She bent over the bag, rummaging through his belongings. Shirts, another pair of pants, his hat, cigarette, drawers.
She dug deeper, pushing things aside. Her nightgown rode up with the movement, fabric bunched between her ass cheeks, around her hips. She felt the cool air hit the backs of her thighs and heard an hitched gasp.
Indeed Stack had caught his breath.
From where he sat, he was seeing everything : the nightgown had ridden up to fold around Lubertaâs waist. Her ass was completely exposed â round, big, soft and oiled brown. The lamplight caught the texture of her skin: the dimpled patterns of cellulite spreading across the fullness of her cheeks and down her thick thighs, the silvery-white lines of stretch marks webbing across her flesh like lightning strikes.
As she bent further, digging through his bag, her ass bounced, jiggling with each sway of her weight. Her intimate lips parted faintly while she arched, peeking at the flushed pink: swollen and shiny.
Stackâs dick throbbed, his swollen balls chafing against the towel. He was already hard as stone from just sitting near her, smelling that vanilla scent. Now his erection was unbearable, aching. His shaft pulsed painful and insistent. The head of his cock pushed upward, making the fabric tent obscenely.
Blood rushed hot to his groin. His heartbeat pounded in his dick, each pulse making it swell harder. He could feel the pre-cum starting to leak from his tip, dampening the towel.
He sighed frustrated. She was torturing him without realizing it.
Oblivious to his sweet torments, she was trying to find him some damn clothes, trying to not look at him, acting extremely friendly while her heart was probably racing as fast as his.
âHere!â Lubertaâs voice came out too high pitched, panicking.
Sheâd found a shirt and pants, balled them up and tossed them over her shoulder without turning around. The clothes hit Stack in the chest.
âIâjustââ She straightened up, keeping her back to him. âTell me when you decent.â
Stack picked up the clothes. His erection throbbed between his legs, demanding attention he couldnât give it. It made it hard to stand but he managed.
He forced himself up carefully. His cock swayed with the movement, heavy and eager. He dropped the towel and stilled a moment â bare with his shaft jutting out hard and thick, the head swollen and dark.
Stack grabbed the pants and pulled them on quickly. The soft cotton easily caressed his sensitive skin, making him grunt quietly. He tucked his length to the side, letting it hanging to life. Next, he pulled the shirt over his head and flattened it.
âHm,â he hushed, his voice flat and controlled. âGot them on.â
Luberta waited seconds before facing him. She turned around with the same practiced smile on her face : bright but empty.
âThere!â She clearly shout, too enthusiastically, performing an old version of herself who never missed greeting him â the old friend â after every Sunday service. âThatâs better, ainât it?â
She moved to the table where she had placed a pitcher of sweet tea earlier on, when she came in the room. Her movements were jerky. Her performance wasnât perfect. Stack could see the cracks in it.
She picked up the pitcher with both hands. The sweet tea sloshed as she poured.
âBrought you some sweet tea I made this afternoon. I used extra sugar, just how folks like it. Miss Francine said I make the best one.â
Luberta cheered wrongly, forcing a laugh. She turned toward him, the glass held in both hands. Her smile fixed in place, straining at the edges.
âFigured you might want something cool. Itâs been so hot today.â
She crossed to him, holding out the glass with that same awful smile plastered on her face.
Stack reached out for the glass, taking it on his lap.
Luberta pulled her hands back quickly, bringing them in front of her chest, fingers lacing together.
âSo I been wonderingâŠâ she beamed falsely, her tone high and jolly. Tilting her head and pitching her lips as if she was just casually catching up with a good friend.
âThat woman you got in Chicago. Yâall serious? She seems real nice. Pretty too. Mary, the lady name is it?â
â
Tag list : @secretisme4 @whoskera @slysagehurricane @lilbitt @bananajoeclone @blackgirlsrock444 @shereeluvssinners @lb-xci @lizbehave