Chapter 7 #2
I reach into the cooler, grab two beers, and hand him one. He hesitates before taking it. I hold his gaze. “Welcome home, brother,” I tell him.
His throat works as he nods, gripping the bottle tighter now.
“You got girls, right?” I add.
“Yeah,” he says.
“It’s a nice neighborhood. Safe,” I tell him.
His eyes shift that way, something breaking open behind them just a little. “They ain’t had safe in a while,” he admits.
I take a slow pull from my beer. “They do now.”
Darren watches the exchange, quiet but satisfied. “You keep showin’ up,” Darren tells Marcus. “That’s part of the deal.”
Marcus nods again, firmer this time. “I will.”
I jerk my chin toward the crew packing up tools. “Stick around,” I add. “Grab a hammer tomorrow. Help the next one.”
He looks at me as if he didn’t expect that.
Then something settles in his expression. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.”
The Following Morning
The sun hasn’t broken the horizon yet when I pull into Pop’s property.
The sky is still dark, but not fully night yet. It’s that in-between hour where the world holds its breath before the day begins. A faint gray-blue stretches across the bayou, just enough light to shape the trees and water without giving anything away.
The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, mud, moss, and cypress. It’s that deep, living scent of Louisiana that settles into your lungs and stays there.
I park, kill the truck, and step out, boots crunching against gravel as I take in the scene. Engines are already idling near the boat launch as I stroll across the yard.
Riggs is there, standing near the dock, coffee in one hand, talking low with Nova. Wick is placing a cooler into one of the boats.
And then there’s Pop, sitting on an overturned crate as if he owns the whole damn bayou, which, in a way, he does.
His worn hat covers his head, and a grin is carved into his face like it’s permanent.
His eyes are sharp as ever despite the years behind them.
Today is the old man’s birthday. I still don’t know how old he is—never asked.
“How’s this fine mornin’ treatin’ ya?” he calls when he spots me.
I huff a breath, stepping closer. “I get to see another sunrise.”
“That’s all any of us can hope for, son,” he shoots back without missing a beat. “Welp,” Pop slowly stands. “I reckon that’s all of ya?”
“Yeah, Pop. Fender and Kiwi are lending their masculine skills to help the women this mornin’,” Riggs says.
Pop chuckles. “I guess that means more beer for us then.” He steps into the boat, settles in his seat, and reaches into the cooler.
“Don’t ya think it’s a bit early to start celebrating, Pop?” Nova shakes his head, grinning.
“Only thing too early in the bayou is a gator with bad intentions.” Pop cracks open the can of beer. “This here’s just good judgment.” He takes a drink.
I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from pulling slightly. This right here is why I get up in the mornings. And for the past few years, being a part of this tradition has become something I look forward to. Didn’t expect that when I first rode with the Kings.
Actually, I didn’t expect much.
But this right here? Heading out to check crawfish traps at sunrise with Pop and my brothers is food for the soul.
Pop slaps his leg once. “Quit standin’ around lookin’ pretty, men. Let’s move.”
We all load up. The boats rock gently against the dock as we step in, and the engines cough to life one by one.
I take a spot near the back of one with Wick and Everest, settling in as the motor kicks, and we ease out into the bayou.
The water is smooth, dark, and reflective, resembling glass only broken by the slow wake behind us.
The bayou opens as we move in deeper. Cypress trees rise from the water like ghosts, their knees breaking the surface in twisted shapes.
Spanish moss hangs heavy from the branches, swaying slowly in the morning breeze.
Birds are waking, their calls echoing through the trees.
Something splashes off to the left, disappearing before I can track it.
The smell out here is different, alive in a way the city never quite is.
The first stretch of sunlight finally breaks over the horizon, painting the water in gold and orange and casting long shadows through the trees.
It’s quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles into your bones.
I breathe it in, trying to absorb some of the silence, hoping to carry it with me long after we leave it behind.
We move slowly, navigating narrow channels and weaving between trees and submerged roots. The motors hum low as we travel deeper into the bayou.
“Right up here,” Pop calls from the lead boat, pointing with a crooked finger.
We cut the engines and drift the last few feet, then the work starts. Traps get hauled up one by one, heavy with mud and movement. Crawfish clatter inside the wire cages, snapping claws, dark shells slick with water and muck.
“Now that’s what I like to see!” Pop hollers as we dump them into coolers, the sound sharp as they hit.
Riggs grabs the next trap. “You been feedin’ these things steroids, Pop?”
Pop grins widely. “That’s called knowin’ what you’re doin’, son.”
I grab a line, pull the next trap up, and the weight settles into my hands. A low ripple moves through the water a few yards out. Then a long, dark shape breaks the surface.
A gator.
A big one.
“Keep your hands out of the water,” Wick calls.