#full angst

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 didn’t explain why every soul here, including his own blood prevented him from crossing the road to her house.

“It’s been a month. I need to see her.”

Stack had been told the truth as soon as they had arrived. Cowardice held him tight and he couldn’t confess the reality to his brother.

“Stack I’m taking the truck.” Smoke uttered, picking his blue hat from Bo Chow’s counter

“Elijah.” Stack caught his twin’s shoulder firmly. “I’m sorry.”

The chow stayed mute, uncomfortably — Grace’s eyes lowered.

The crowd in the convenience store emptied gradually without bringing the tense silence with them.

“What’s gotten to you, Stack? Come on nigga, it’s been a month. I must see my wife, I can’t keep listening to your ca—”

“She’s gone.” Grace shouted, interrupting — 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 Smoke’s 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.

“What you said?”

“Last year, an epidemic of malaria stormed in Delta…she…”

The gun slammed the ground and Smoke was running already. He started his truck — the engine coughing once and twice before giving.

Knots tightened his stomach — 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 — deaf to the complaints and curses of the kinfolks.

“ANNIE—!” Smoke cried, yelling high as soon he put a foot on the swampy pavement leading to her shack. “Woman I’m calling you—” his lips stayed suspended, heart sinking in his empty, hurtful stomach when he cut his eyes to the garden — right beside the little rock he had made for their late little girl. “No…NO— NO”

He fell, knees embracing the muddy earth. Tears welled down his cheeks, uncontrollably while his shaking fingers grabbed the blue scarf and pearls necklace : “please baby. Wake up. Please…”

Smoke begged and cried — snot and tears confusingly mixed on his tortured face. “I’m home mama. Please, you slept a lot already…” he leaned over, forehead touching the mud, lips whispering to the earth. “I get it. I learned my lesson…so please…PLEASE—”

He began digging through the ground frantically — dirt caking his nails. Passengers stopped in their walking, hushing among them about the twin who had gone mad finally.

“Smoke—! Stop.” Stack rushed out his car, cupping his brother broad back with his arms.

“Get the fuck off me! I’m taking my wife back, STACK LEAVE ME ALONE”

Stack tightened his embrace, kneeling behind his twin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry Smoke.”

“No… you all tripping.” Smoke lost it. He crashed his head on rock holding the clothes and jewelries together. “Annie is just putting a little trick on me…right baby?” His lips fluttered the swampy grassland again before he cracking. “How…why…why her? Why now?”

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.

“What happened?” He asked plainly as soon as he opened Bo chow’s store.

“Smoke…listen…”

“Bo chow. What happened to my wife.”

“The malaria epidemic, it was deadly. Folks living in south of the town didn’t make it because of the swamps..and we tried to get her some help but they all refused to…” Bo wiped his forehead with a cloth. “Pretending that their medicines couldn’t help her kin. They asked us for exorbitant amounts of dollars we didn’t have…”

Dollars?

Dollars fucking bills were the price of his wife’s life?

“I see.”

“Smoke, I’m sorry we—”

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 couldn’t 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 : “Annie—”

Nobody. Nothing except the wall. And the crickets under the moonlight, singing him lullabies.

“I’m alone Ma’. I can’t hold you anymore.” He cupped his face, drowning his palms with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so—sorry.”

His breath ragged, spasms invaded pores of his body.

Elijah. Don’t go there. Papa, don’t 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 : “I’m here. I’m right here. Why can’t you — why won’t you —”

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 wasn’t the one preparing Jars and potions, he was the one busying with woodwork. Nevertheless they always had found a way to get in each other’s touches.

Not this Sunday.

“I can’t — I can’t find you mama. I can’t —” his voice cracked down the middle. “Where are you, where are you —” his knees gave out, letting him fall down on the floor — 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.

“This ain’t real.” He snapped. “What they put in that damn ground ain’t you.” His features severed and relaxed madly. “You too hardheaded to let something like malaria take you.”

Papa, I’m happy. Don’t let sorrow blighted you.

“Why are you speaking in my head while all I crave is your body to embrace? Please Annie. Please, you punished me…enough…please…”

Monday morning came and immediately was followed by the night. Stack was suspicious, worried about Smoke’s 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 clouds’ glares.

The town was asleep when he cracked bullets between eyes of two white men who were smoking in front of the infirmary.

“Niggers ain’t welcome here. Get out. Go die somewhere else.”

The middle age spiteful man didn’t have chances to uttered another slur, Smoke’s gun already hit his temple.

With his free hand, he threw the bag on the counter and growled. “Count it.” Jaw flexed, gaze unreadable, fist tight on the chamber. Smoke hit the man with the hammer, bleeding him. “I said. count those fuckin’ damn dollars.”

The cracker obeyed. His roasted pink skin reddening uglier.

“We— listen…I can still—”

“How much innit?” Smoke spat.

Mouth wide opened, drool almost leaking from his lips, the white doctor couldn’t hide the terror and greed dancing in his greenish eyes “8000$”

“Good money right? Real american motherfuckin’ dollars.” Smoke pressed his lips tight, grimacing of anger.

“Look my guy…there some mis—”

BANG.

The bullet traveled through the white skull — right from his temple, where Smoke had positioned the pistol.

“She was worthier than that.” Blood splashed on Smoke’s shirt, splattered on his cold face when he pulled another trigger on the doctor’s chest. Then his abdomen, two on his face.

He fisted pack of bills, crouched and stuffed them brutally inside the deadman’s mouth. “You want it? Right? Those American dollars bills? Come on take it.”

Smoke’s vendetta last all night.

It was with broken ribs that Stack finally found him — hidden behind Annie’s shack, holding her blue scarf.

“Come on Smoke. We ain’t dying there.” Stack held his half-dead brother by the shoulders. “Just get in there.” He positioned him in the back of their truck. “We outta town. Come on, you can make it.”

Lies.

Few miles away, when they finally free themselves from their assailants. Stack parked right beside a giant tree and opened the truck’s roll-up door.

“Let, get you some water, Sm—”

Words died in Stack’s throat. He approached his twin’s calm and shut face.

Elijah was cold, a cocky grin drawing his lips — fingers loose around the blue fabric.

“You got your head on her fat ass tits, right now huh.” Stack mumbled, draping his brother with a canvas tarp.

End.

TAGLIST •

“My name is Poe,” he said softly. “Poe-”

“-Dameron. I got that, yeah.” Rey tossed her hair out and snorted. “At least, that’s what they told me when I got hauled in for questioning.” She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “That was a real fun throwback to being thrown in juvie. Nice touch. Loved it.”

“I didn’t think they’d…” Poe pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled noisily, eyes shut. “I told them you weren’t part of it, that you had no idea.”

“No 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?” Rey sat heavily on her threadbare sofa and glowered at the carpet, for a change in scenery. “I mean, I wasn’t surprised.”

“Probably not the best way to find out,” 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). “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry that my entire life is shot to shit?” Rey quirked an eyebrow but didn’t look up. “Or sorry that you fucking lied to me for eight months?”

“Both?” She did glare at him then, and he offered her an irritatingly charming smile. “It can be both, right?”

“You don’t get it.” Rey shook her head miserably and drew her knees up to her chest, becoming as small as possible. “You think you can just waltz in here and fuck around in my life and then … and then say sorry and make a joke, and I’ll forgive you?”

“No, that’s not what-”

“Oh, so funny, I’m 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-”

“-Rey, please-”

“-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.” 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. “Well, fuck you, and fuck them - but fuck you most of all.”

“I’m so, so sorry.” He sounded genuine, but then again, she knew he was good at faking it. “And believe me, that is not how I see you. You’re so much more than that, you have no idea what I see when I look at you.” 

“A mark?” Rey offered bitterly, and she shook her head and didn’t let him explain himself when he tried. “No, no, that’s 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.” 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. “And 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.”

“That isn’t how it went down,” Poe protested, but Rey felt something very cold settle in her stomach.

“Would they have given you a bonus if we’d slept together?” Rey glared at her knees and then at him, and she was mildly pleased through her cold fury to see that he was stricken. “Tell me. Did you put it into your report that you seduced me?”

“No.” Poe wiped a hand down his face and leaned over his knees, looking green. “Fuck no, God, that makes me feel sick-”

“Is that why you wouldn’t have sex with me?” Rey’s mouth fell open for a second, and new anger surged in. 

“Yeah…” His eyes were red-rimmed now, and he rubbed his neck. “I mean, definitely. I couldn’t…not when I was…”

“Lying,” Rey finished for him. “Well, then.” She laughed semi-hysterically. “Fucking shit, you had me thinking you found me so repulsive, you didn’t want to sleep with me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Poe tore at his hair. “That is the exact opposite-”

“I don’t see how you could have lied,” Rey cleared her throat and threaded her fingers together, squeezing them tightly, “that whole time. I can’t - eight months, and you…you came over almost every night the last few months. You let me fall asleep on your shoulder. I don’t even see how that would have helped you to…” A thought occurred to her, a small, nagging idea that maybe he does mean it, but she shoved it viciously away. “You must be the world’s greatest liar.”

“I’m 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 ‘til the end, but I requested to be pulled off the case when I realized that I’d…” He trailed off and turned bright red. 

“That you’d what?” Rey scoffed. “Gotten in too deep? Hadn’t counted on me not being as useful as you needed?”

“I asked to be extracted when I realized I was in love with you.” Poe clenched his fists on his knees. “I 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 don’t have to stay here in Jakku, Rey, you can leave, Unkar can’t control you now.”

“You don’t love me.” 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. “You don’t. You lied to me.” She covered her mouth with her hand and sobbed once, twice, trying to get it under control.

“I didn’t want to,” Poe pleaded with her, his brown eyes mournful and not exactly dry either. “Fuck, 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 wasn’t a lie. Who I was when I was with you, that was real.”

“You..kissed me,” Rey said faintly, rubbing her temples. “And…and you told me you cared about me.” Poe looked up, hope in his eyes. 

“And I meant what I said then.” Poe slid off the coffee table to kneel at her feet, and he grabbed her hands, rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles. “That I appreciated everything about you, and I valued you so, so much, and you make me so happy-”

“You made me fall in love with you,” Rey said. “I fell in love with you.” Poe’s expression brightened almost painfully. But Rey shook her head, and she threw her hands off of hers with a quick movement. “No. I fell in love with Nathan.”  She stood up and began to walk away from him. “And he isn’t even real.”

“Rey, please-”

“Get out of my house.” She glared out the window towards the back alley behind her home, and she didn’t move a muscle until she heard the door shut quietly - she didn’t move when she heard an agonized please, she didn’t move when she heard his breath catch in a sob, she didn’t move when her heart begged her to, begged her to go to the person who’d betrayed her, who’d made her feel so awful, who she was pretty sure she loved - 

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.

"Fuck—!" 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 — 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 — 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 someone—something 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.

"Please— 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 ! 💕 if you want to be removed, just tell me friend !

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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) .

1– Imany

2– Soulmates and strangers

3 — Home Sweet Home

4 — A man’s agony

5 — Cocoa Sweet

6 — Evil deed

7 — No freedom

8 — Lady Josephine

9 — Her prayers

10 — 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 ! 💕 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 he’d 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.

“I need a drink,” he muttered to his reflection.

No. What Stack really needed was Luberta. He needed to see her. Needed to explain—though what he’d 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t wearing any jewelry. Luberta had never been the type to shine aggressively. She was plain.

Still, Stack’s 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 — tall and lean with knowing eyes — he ordered coffee.

“Anything to eat, sugar?” She had a notebook in her hand, pencil poised.

“Just coffee.”

“You sure? we got fresh biscuits, crispy bacon—”

“Coffee’s fine sweetheart. Thank you.”

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.

Luberta’s 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, he’d 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 couple’s dishes — Stack had stood to approach her and she’d 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.

“You need sum’ son?”

“No ma’am.”

“Good. ’Cause if you planning to bother my girls while they working, we gonna have a problem.”

Stack had sat back down under the old woman’s scrutiny.

And through it all, Luberta had moved like smoke: present but unreachable.

Stack watched her serve a young man who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She laughed at something he said, that bright fake laugh that made Stack’s 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 wasn’t trying to get drunk—not 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 didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse.

“You good handsome?”

Stack blinked. One of the boarding house’s women was standing beside his table, eyebrows raised, hands on her hips.

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Hmm, you sure? Ain’t nothing seemed right on ya face.”

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. “Oh. I see.”

“Nah gal you ain’t see shit.”

“Mmhmm.” She picked up his empty glass and sniffed it. “How much you got?”

“Not enough.”

“Respectfully, I think you got plenty.” She didn’t 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 didn’t exist.

Like last night hadn’t 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. He’d 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.

“Madam Francine!” He called. “It’s Duveaud.”

The old man went straight to Francine’s desk. She looked up from her ledger. “No need to scream Mr. Duveaud. I heard you. Afternoon.”

“Ah! Old friend.” He tipped his hat. “I’m in very need of my wild flower.” He grinned wide, foolishly.

Stack’s facial features twisted. He worked his jaw, gritting his teeth.

His wild flower?

HIS wild flower?

Stack’s lungs constricted, unable to catch air. His fists under the table cracked, opening his dried knuckles’ wounds.

At the counter, Francine’s attitude didn’t change but something shifted in her posture. “I’m afraid Luberta ain’t available today Mr. Duveaud.”

Duveaud’s jovial expression flickered. “Whatcha mean, ain’t available?”

“Just what I said. Maybe come after this week. She’ll be less busy.”

“Busy, huh?” The old man slammed on the counter. “With who?”

“That ain’t your business, old man.” Francine returned her attention back to her book.

“The hell it ain’t!” His voice rose. Several heads turned. “I came yesterday I couldn’t get her, you know damn well that—”

“Stop yappin’ in my ears please.” Francine rolled her eyes. “I got Elise available, or Claudine if you want to wait about twenty minutes—”

“NO!” Duveaud slammed his palm on the desk. “I want what’s MINE.”

The room had gone quiet. Even the customers pretended not to listen while hanging on every word.

“Mr. Duveaud.” Francine squinted her eyes then stood, looming her tall figure over the short rotund man. “You 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.”

Duveaud’s face grew ugly, darkened with anger and embarrassment. He glanced around the room, peeped at the people, and suddenly remembered where he was.

“This is bad business, Francine,” he said, quieter but no less angry. “Real bad business.”

“Then take yours elsewhere.”

For a moment, Stack thought the old man might actually leave. He turned toward the door, took two steps—and 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.

“There she is,” he barked. “There’s my girl.”

Luberta’s 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 presence—then strangely her usual fake smile didn’t appear on her face. Instead, her eyes wavered, she pinched her lips, her fingers twitching around the pitcher.

“Sir,” she mumbled. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know you was coming today. If I had, I would’ve—”

“Oh my sweet darling.” Duveaud was already moving toward her, ignoring Francine’s warning glare. “You would’ve made sure you was available for me right? Instead of that nigga who got money to throw around?”

He reached her. Luberta set the pitcher down on the nearest table with shaking hands.

“I didn’t know someone had already—”

“No matter at all.” Duveaud’s hands went to her waist, fingers spreading wide, pulling her toward him. “Been thinking about you all week gal. This body…all this softness.”

Luberta fixed a smile on her face but Stack saw her shoulders hunch inward, hands flutter uselessly at her sides like trapped birds.

“Mr. Duveaud, please, there’s folks watching—”

“Let ’em watch.” His right hand slid up her side, fingers digging into the fat there, kneading it. “Maybe they need to know who you belong to.”

His other hand dropped lower, cupping her ass through her dress and squeezing hard.

Stack saw red.

“All this here,” Duveaud continued, his hand roaming from her side to her breast, groping it, “all this wasted on some bastard who got money to burn. Should be mine. You know that, don’t you girl?”

“Yes sir.” Luberta’s voice had gone thin and breathy. “I’m sorry sir.”

“You should be.” He pulled her closer, his belly pressing against hers, his face buried in her neck. Stack could see his mouth moving, see Luberta’s eyes squeeze shut. “All week I been waiting. All week thinking about these hips, this ass, these big soft titties—”

His hand squeezed her breast again, rougher.

“—and you gonna tell me I can’t have it?”

“I’m not—I didn’t mean—” Luberta was struggling to keep her voice steady. “It wasn’t my choice, Mr. Duveaud. If it was up to me—”

“Damn right it should be up to you.” His hand slid from her breast down to her stomach. “Next 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.”

He grabbed a handful of her hip, her side, her backside again—like he was testing produce at market.

“What you think about that, hmm? You want old Duveaud to take care of you proper?”

“That would be… that would be real kind of you, sir.”

“Yeah. Remember who treats you good.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

The old man finally released her, stepping back with a satisfied grunt. He straightened his shirt, adjusted his hat.

“Until then pretty doll.”

“Yes sir.”

He turned and walked toward the door, tipping his hat to Francine as he passed. “We’ll settle this next week, Miss Francine. I expect better service.”

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 he’d 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.

Stack’s 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 didn’t go as far as he should’ve gone. It was easy to track him down.

Stack’s 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 Duveaud’s hands on Luberta—grabbing 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 maze—dangerously quiet—keeping 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 street—beside some men who were already sitting and smoking.

The sun climbed higher, beating down relentlessly. Sweat gathered at his collar but he didn’t move. Didn’t 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 — leaving.

Stack straightened.

Through the window, he saw Duveaud moving around inside. Counting money. Cleaning shelves. Calling the name of someone — 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 Duveaud’s hunched back, then he waved between shelves silently and grabbed the man by the collar.

With incredible force he spun him around.

“What the—”

Stack slammed him against one sturdy hardwood shelf. Duveaud’s back cracked, the jangling keys around his belt, fell on the floor.

“Who—who are you? What do you want?”

Stack’s lips twitched but he bothered not to answer. He drew his fist back and drove it into Duveaud’s face.

The old man’s nose crunched, spitting blood.

“Money—” Duveaud panicked under Stack’s hold, struggling to get his hands in his pockets. “You can have my money— please don’t—”

Stack hit him again. His fist crushed the old man’s mouth.

Duveaud felt his teeth cracking off his bloody agonizing gums.

“Shut your ass up.”

Stack grabbed the man’s 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.

“AAAGH—Please!” The old man was crying now, blood and spit running down his chin. “I dunno whatcha want but please take it! I do—don’t even know you, why you doing that to me.”

“The woman…” Stack hushed, advancing on him. “You groped like a pig this afternoon. Luberta. She mine.”

Duveaud’s swollen eyes widened, yet he still decided to fool around. “Who? I don’t—”

Stack kicked him in the stomach, then his back while the man contorted in pain.

He grabbed Duveaud again and punched his jaw.

“Don’t lie to me. The delta woman at Francine’s...”

“You—you…” the words caught in the store owner’s mouth.

“That’s right.”

“But I didn’t—I wasn’t gonna—” He was gasping, Stack’s hand on his throat, cutting off his air. “I just wanted to—she’s just a whore, man, I ain’t mean nothing by—”

Stack slammed Duveaud injured head against the wall again. “Say that again. See what happens.”

The man head spun, his eyes getting blurry at the edges, blood smeared around his mouth, his broken ribs lancing. “I—I’m sorry..I’m sorry…” He trailed off.

Stack loosened his grip slightly. Let Duveaud suck in a wheezing breath.

“You fucker like putting hands on women, huh?”

“I paid for—”

“Huh?”

Stack released Duveaud on the ground and pulled his gun from the holster at his hip.

“No. No no no, please, I got a wife, I got children—”

“Should’ve thought about that before putting your hands on her.”

Stack cocked the hammer.

“Please!” Duveaud was sobbing, curling into himself. “I’ll do anything! Anything you want! I’ll pay you—I’ll never go back there—I’ll leave town—”

“Oh. Interesting.” Stack crouched down, pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. “You do everything?”

“Yes! Yes, everything!”

“That’s cool uncle. You don’t go back to Francine’s. Not next week. Not ever. You don’t ask about Luberta. You don’t say her name. You don’t even think about her. You understand?”

“Yes! I understand! I won’t—I’ll never—”

“And if I hear you been spreading what happened here tonight—” Stack pressed the gun harder against his skull. “If I hear you been running your mouth…I will find you. I’m very good at finding people.” He cockily grinned. “And when I’ll find you…I won’t just scratch your face.. Next time I’ll put a bullet…” he puffed, mimicking bullets sounds. “…right between your eyes. Are we clear?”

“Clear! We’re clear! I won’t say nothing! I swear to God!”

Stack held him there for a moment longer, letting the fear sink deep in his bones.

“Good.”

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.

“Get up,” Stack ordered.

“What?”

“I said get the fuck up.”

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.

“Now go home,” Stack continued. “Clean yourself up. Tell your old lady you got jumped by some boys looking for money. I don’t give a fuck. Just tell her some shit. Just you remember what I said.”

“Yes sir. Yes!”

—

The boarding house drowned in darkness when Stack pushed through the front door. Francine’s 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 woman’s high-pitched moaning from the left, theatrical and practiced. A man’s 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 — 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 bursts—lukewarm 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 didn’t 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 — 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 didn’t quite meet.

Stack’s 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 — the biscuits. The same smell that had filled the kitchen that morning. Flour and butter and sugar.

Stack’s throat felt tight.

He swallowed.

Luberta still hadn’t looked up.

“I—” Her voice came out thin, barely above a whisper. “I should be here.”

She paused. She tried to cover more of herself, but there wasn’t enough hands to hide everything.

“You mah client. Them sayin’ I should sleep there. I told ‘em you did mistake when you came yesterday and I just a friend…” She twitched her toes on the floor. “I ain’t da type ya was lookin’ fa…but I

Her shoulders curled inward, head dropping low.

“Elise,” Luberta continued, speaking fast. “I seen you two talking earlier. she real pretty. I told her— asked to come but she busy with someone else and I—”

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 wouldn’t be wise to step close in his current state.

He cleared his throat and started the conversation.

“Bertie…what that old man did today. That happen a lot?”

Luberta’s shoulders tensed. She kept staring at the floorboards between her bare feet.

“I’m fine. Really.” She smiled bitterly. “Mr. Duveaud, he just… he get excited sometimes. Ain’t mean no harm by it.”

Stack sucked his teeth, grimacing.

“Should’ve killed that nigga,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” He unclenched his fists.

Luberta nodded unconvinced.

Then, she glanced sideways — 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 — Something she didn’t 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 couldn’t 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.

“You—you can’t just sit there like that,” she stammered, already moving toward his duffel bag with trembling hands. “Where your—where you keep your clothes at?”

She fumbled with the leather straps, her fingers clumsy. She heard the bed creak and Stack shifted behind her but she didn’t 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 Luberta’s waist. Her ass was completely exposed — 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.

Stack’s 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.

“Here!” Luberta’s voice came out too high pitched, panicking.

She’d found a shirt and pants, balled them up and tossed them over her shoulder without turning around. The clothes hit Stack in the chest.

“I—just—” She straightened up, keeping her back to him. “Tell me when you decent.”

Stack picked up the clothes. His erection throbbed between his legs, demanding attention he couldn’t 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 — 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.

“Hm,” he hushed, his voice flat and controlled. “Got them on.”

Luberta waited seconds before facing him. She turned around with the same practiced smile on her face : bright but empty.

“There!” She clearly shout, too enthusiastically, performing an old version of herself who never missed greeting him — the old friend — after every Sunday service. “That’s better, ain’t it?”

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 wasn’t perfect. Stack could see the cracks in it.

She picked up the pitcher with both hands. The sweet tea sloshed as she poured.

“Brought 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.”

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.

“Figured you might want something cool. It’s been so hot today.”

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.

“So I been wondering…” 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.

“That woman you got in Chicago. Y’all serious? She seems real nice. Pretty too. Mary, the lady name is it?”

—