JUSTE
Chiana's moans bounced off the laundry room walls, loud and unfiltered, like music meant for me and me only. I had her bent over that bougie-ass washing machine she made me buy for her birthday—high-tech, chrome-trimmed, cost more than a used car. Worth every dollar though, the way she was squirming on it now. I was on my knees, tongue buried in her pussy, slurpin' and suckin' like I was starvin'. Circular motion, just how she liked it. My hands gripped her thick thighs, holdin' her steady while I tongued her clit like I was tryna draw out a prayer. "Yesss, Juste... baby, right there, right there,"
she moaned, voice already breaking up.
I sped up, lips locked on her swollen bud, lettin' her grind against my face. Her legs started shakin', knees bucklin'. "Oh shit,"
she gasped. Next thing I knew, she came hard—whole body shudderin', juices floodin' my beard. Her moans cracked into a curse, her back archin' like a bow string before she went limp. "Nah, I got you,"
I murmured low, arm wrapping around her waist before she slid off. In one smooth motion, I stood up and pushed into her from behind, slow and deep. That first stroke had both of us groanin'. She clutched the sides of the washer like it was the only thing keepin' her upright. "Mmmmh... shit,"
she choked out, voice rough like she'd been yellin' at me all night.
I grabbed a handful of them waist-length braids and wrapped 'em around my hand, pullin' her head back so I could see her face. Her eyes met mine in the reflection of the glass cabinet above the washer—heavy-lidded, that smug ass smirk on her lips like she knew exactly how she had me. "Tell me you love me"
I growled in her ear, slammin' into her harder now. Her mouth dropped open, breath caught in her throat. nothing came out. "You don't her me? You tryna test my patience?"
I teased, voice low, gritty. I was jokin', but not really. She always knew how to push me there—to the edge where control got blurry. "I'm sorry,"
she panted, not soundin' the least bit sorry.
"Nah, you ain't,"
I said, smirkin' as I dug deeper, my hand grippin' her hip, pullin' her back to meet every stroke. "But you will be."
The washer was shakin' beneath us, damn near keepin' rhythm with every thrust. Sweat dripped down my temple. Her skin was soft and hot, and them scars... I kissed her back between 'em earlier, every mark a reminder of what we'd made it through—and what I almost lost. I reached around, slid my fingers between her legs, rubbin' that clit again. "Cum for me, Chiana."
"oh..god"
"Cum for Juste Baeeby"
Her body clenched, breath caught, and just like that, she unraveled again. I ain't even hold out much longer after that—came right behind her, emptyin' myself deep inside, both of us breathin' heavy as hell, hearts beatin' like bass drums. My body slumped over hers, skin to skin, heat to heat. I didn't move right away. Just stayed there, lettin' that moment breathe while I kissed the slope of her shoulder. The same one with that faint scar, still pink, still healin'. That shit did somethin' to me. I finally slid out, grabbin' a towel from the basket nearby and wiped us both down—gentle-like. She was already pullin' up her shorts, mumblin' somethin' about how I always ruin her clothes when the security alarm chirped loud through the house.
"Front door open."
We both turned toward the TV screen hangin' on the wall, that showed the security cam feeds. Pierre's tall goofy ass strolled in like he paid bills here. Chiana smacked her lips and folded her arms. "We need to have a real conversation about everybody and your mama just walkin' up in here like this they spot."
I smirked, adjustin' myself in my pants. "Quit fussin'."
I kissed her cheek and left her grumblin' in the laundry room, headin' into the kitchen to wash my hands. Pierre was already at the island, sittin' like he been waitin' on me.
"Chiana said y'all gotta stop walkin' in here like y'all got a key,"
I said, dryin' my hands with a towel as I dapped him up. Pierre snorted, already headed to the bar. "Man, they say y'all be fuckin' all over this muthafucka at any given moment,"
he chuckled, pourin' D'USSé into two lowball glasses like it was water. I shook my head. "Who the hell said that?"
Chiana walked through at that exact moment, clothes basket in her arms, eyes narrowed. "Who said that?"
she echoed, brows arched .
Pierre burst out laughin' as she side-eyed both of us and headed upstairs. I took the glass from him and tossed it back, the dark liquor hittin' smooth. "So what's up, P? I'm supposed to meet y'all later, but since you here early, talk to me."
He leaned back on the stool, ran his hand down his face. "This shit wit' Uncle Saint bein' my pops... us bein' brothers. That shit been sittin' on me heavy, Jus."
I nodded, already expectin' this convo. "I know, nigga. That shit fucked me up too. It's one thing to find out family got secrets, it's another to realize you the secret."
Pierre rubbed his forehead like he had a migraine. "Shit feel fake. Like, I spent my whole life callin' that man uncle. Now I gotta process he been my daddy this whole time. And mama? Bruh... she knew. Evie knew. Saint knew. Like how the fuck I'm just the last one to know?"
I leaned back against the counter, takin' it in. "They all kept that shit to protect they own image. But that don't make it right."
Pierre looked down at his glass, swirl the liquor around. "shit hit different. I be wonderin' what all gon' change."
"Nothin',"
I said, firm. "Ain't shit gon' change. You was my brother before I knew, and you my brother now. Point blank. And them people who tried to hide it? Let 'em deal with they demons. That ain't on you."
He nodded, but I could still see the war in his face. "You really be meanin' that shit when you say it, huh?"
"Every muthafuckin' word."
We sat in that quiet for a moment, the weight of loyalty stretchin' between us. "Aight,"
I said, finally breakin' the silence. "I'ma hit the shower. I'll meet y'all at the spot."
Pierre nodded as I walked him to the door, locking it behind him once he left. The sun had started to dip low behind the trees, painting the house in that lazy golden light that made everything feel slower, heavier. I made my way upstairs, my steps quiet over the hardwood. When I pushed open the bedroom door, I paused. Chiana was laid out across the top of the bed, one leg kicked out the sheets, lips slightly parted, deep in sleep. Her hand rested on the folded pile of laundry she probably didn't even realize she left untouched. At the foot of the bed were the clothes I told her I'd been lookin' for earlier—folded all neat like she always did. My smirk came slow, crept across my lips before I could stop it. She always did shit like that—quiet things that meant somethin'. But I couldn't lie... seein' her laid out like that, peaceful, scar and all exposed from the way her tank had shifted in her sleep—it hit me in the chest. That girl was almost taken from me. And while I'd been puttin' in work to make sure that ain't never happen again, I still ain't fixed the damage it left between us.
I exhaled and walked into the bathroom, pullin' off my shirt and tossin' it to the side. The steam from the hot water rolled out the shower like smoke as I stepped in, lettin' it hit my back and ease the tension I'd been carryin' all day. But I couldn't shake the convo me and Pierre had. That shit was still ringin' in my head like a bad echo. The truth about Saint. The lies Vera kept. The weight on Pierre's chest from growin' up thinkin' he was just one of us—not knowin' he was born one of us. That kinda truth'll fuck with a man. Shift the ground under your feet. And on top of that, business was movin' fast. Too fast. With the new development coming in Thiloux, we had legit money pourin' in. Contracts bein' drawn, investors hittin' the line... but that also meant more product was bein' pushed. More risk. More heat. More enemies.
We was buildin' somethin' big—but big always came with a price. I stood there, lettin' the water roll over me, fists pressin' into the tile as my mind raced. We had security to tighten. We had Maseon still out there breathin'. And while Chiana was startin' to look like herself again on the outside, I knew she wasn't all the way healed. Not in her heart. Not in her mind.
I dried off and threw on a clean black tee, jeans, and my chain. Grabbed my burner off the dresser and tucked it in my waistband before lookin' back at her one last time. She stirred just a little, like she could feel me leavin'. I didn't wanna wake her. She needed the rest. But I walked over, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. "Be back in a lil',"
I whispered, my voice low. "I love you."
Then I turned the lights low, closed the door behind me, and headed out.
_
Pop was seated at the head of the patio table, a slow swirl of smoke drifting up from the cigar between his fingers. Jules and Noles were halfway through a bottle of yak, and Pierre had that usual scowl on his face, elbows on the table, jaw clenched like he was tryna bite through stone. And then there was Uncle Fred. Great-Unc. The real OG of the St. Jean bloodline. He ain't speak much, but when he did—it moved mountains. You could see it in how everybody's back straightened just a little more when he leaned back in his chair. I knew why he was here. Abel.
That nigga's name still made my stomach turn. I stepped through the gate, head noddin' as they glanced up. "'Bout time,"
Noles muttered, already pourin' me a glass like he knew I'd need it. I dapped up Pop first, then Fred. "Unc."
Fred just gave a slow nod, eyes watchin' me close. Always readin'. That old man could read a nigga soul like scripture. I pulled out a chair and sat down slow, leanin' back with that liquor in my palm. "Go 'head,"
Pop said. "Ain't no reason to circle 'round it."
I nodded, jaw tight. "It was me."
Pierre's head dropped.
"I pulled the trigger,"
I said, starin' into my glass. "I ain't hesitate. That bullet went right between his eyes, just like it was supposed to."
Fred took a deep breath, then exhaled like he'd been holdin' that shit for decades. "Heard you burned the whole warehouse after,"
Fred finally said, voice calm but heavy. "Cleaned it."
"Yeah. Clean,"
I confirmed. "No mess left. Ain't no trail to follow."
A long silence fell over the table. "You did what had to be done,"
Fred said, finally leanin' back. "Abel been poisonin' this family since the eighties."
"The problem is,"
Uncle Fred said, voice low and cuttin' through the cigar smoke cloudin' the air. "Money still gotta be made and collected out in Houston."
He leaned back slow, sippin' from his glass like he was waitin' for one of us to buck.
The groans started almost immediately. "Man, I ain't tryna be in Houston every damn day,"
Pierre muttered, rubbin' his jaw like the thought alone wore him out. "Shid, I'm tryna save my marriage,"
Jules added, throwin his hands up. Noles leaned forward, arms on the table, brows low. "I got a girl here now. I ain't tryna move 'round like no flunky."
I sat back, arms crossed, eyein' every last one of 'em. I already knew what Fred was gon' say before he even opened his mouth. Niggas was complainin' like we ain't all know what life we was born into.
"Say look,"
Fred's voice turned sharp now. That no-nonsense, seasoned OG tone. "I don't really give a fuck 'bout y'all schedules or if you gotta run back and forth to Houston every fuckin' day. Do what you gotta do. But that money flow outta Houston?"
He paused, lookin' at each of us dead in the eye. "That don't stop. Or else it's a problem—a me problem. And I promise y'all don't want that."
Silence hit the table like a gunshot. A thick cloud of tension hovered over us— nobody say nothin' right away, just the hum of the ceiling fan overhead and the low crackle of Pop's cigar burnin'.
"We'll figure it out,"
Pops finally spoke, his voice steady but worn. "The money flow outta Houston won't stop."
He cut his eyes around the table, landin' on each of us one by one—me, Jules, Noles, Pierre—makin' sure we understood it wasn't just a statement. It was law. Uncle Fred nodded, slow and solid, like he'd been expectin' that answer. He grabbed his cane and the half-empty glass of Crown he never left without. But just when I thought he was gon' head out without another word, he paused, turned slightly, and looked dead at me.
"Oh, and Juste,"
he said, voice low and slick like the devil himself was whisperin' it, "that rabbit you lookin' for—Maseon—last I heard, he out in Memphis, layin' low behind some old connect."
My jaw flexed. Blood started pumpin' quicker in my chest, like a switch flipped in the back of my skull. Uncle Fred didn't wait for no reaction. He tipped his glass at Pops, nodded to the rest of us, and walked out the room.
I leaned back in my chair, the wood creakin' underneath me. My fingers tapped slow against the rim of my glass, mind already runnin' a mile a minute. I knew Maseon wouldn't stay gone forever. He always slithered back through Louisiana eventually—like roaches when the lights cut back off. And when he did, I was gon' be right there waitin'. "Memphis?"
Noles echoed after a long beat. "Shit, that sound 'bout right for that scary-ass nigga."
Jules shook his head, muttering, "Nigga been a snake since high school. We should've peeled his skin off back then."
Pops raised a brow at me. "What you thinkin', Juste?"
I looked up, my eyes dead steady. "I'm thinkin' that when he bring his ass back to Louisiana... I'm cuttin' his breath short. Ain't gon' be no conversation, ain't gon' be no warnin'. It's gon' be one shot—clean and final."
Nobody said a word. They all knew I meant that shit. After Fred left, we stayed locked in, talkin' numbers, structure, Houston rotations, and the new product lines we was gonna push through the development once it opened. The whole time I was noddin', listenin', speakin' when needed... but my mind was already in Memphis, watchin' Maseon's final moments unfold like a movie on slow play. I wasn't gon' chase him. I wasn't even gon' sweat it. He was gon' come back home eventually. And when he did, I was gon' be the last face that fuck nigga saw.
-
By the time the sun started settin', the sky was turnin' that soft gold mixed with lavender—the kinda color that made you pause even in the middle of war. We was in the backyard, and I had powdered sugar on my shirt and heat in my lap—both from the beignets Chi made and the glock sittin' beside my leg. Chiana stood across from me in them tight lil shorts, her Dior shades pushed up on her head, lips glistenin' from that lemonade she'd been sippin'. Weed-infused, of course. That's been her thing lately—weed and citrus and tryin' to stay calm in the middle of all the chaos.
She was lookin' at me like I was crazy, brows raised as I pointed to the guns laid out in front of us on the patio table—my .40, the Desert Eagle, and the AR. "Juste, I just don't think all this is necessary,"
she said finally, her voice a lil breathy, like she ain't wanna argue but couldn't hold her tongue either. I leaned back in the lawn chair, one leg stretched out, the other propped up on the edge of the table. I bit into a still-warm beignet and wiped the sugar from my fingers before speakin'.
"Chiana, just hush and listen,"
I said, not harsh, just firm. She had to understand this wasn't paranoia—it was survival. "Look, I ain't sayin' you gotta be runnin' round the city with a choppa in ya purse. But with the way shit been movin'? The way folks tryna circle back? I need to know you can protect yourself if it come down to it."
She stared at the guns like they offended her. Like they didn't belong near her perfectly laid baby hairs and rose gold nails. "Juste, you protect me. That's what you do. Why the hell would I need to—"
"'Cause I can't be everywhere, Chi."
I stood up, walkin' over to her, my voice lower now. "I was there that night Maseon came for us, yeah. But what if I wasn't? What if I ain't got time to pull up or ain't close enough to stop the bullshit? You gon' wish you took this lesson serious."
She looked at me, and I saw it in her eyes—that flicker of memory. Of the pain. Of the hospital. The silence between her heartbeat and the machines. Her lips pressed together tight. "Fine,"
she said quietly. "But I'm shootin' in these sandals. So don't say shit if my aim ain't perfect."
I smirked. "Ain't nobody ask you to be Annie Oakley. Just stand firm. Don't flinch."
I stepped behind her, slidin' my hands around her waist to guide her grip. Her ass brushed against me, and I had to breathe slow not to get distracted. She smelled like coconut and vanilla, and I swore the woman could make me forget I had bodies to bury. "Hold it steady,"
I murmured near her ear. "Don't fight the kick. Let it move through you."
She nodded, bit her lip, and squeezed the trigger.
The first shot rang out and she stumbled a lil. But she ain't drop the piece. "Again,"
I said. By the third shot, she was locked in. I leaned back, noddin', feelin' that strange mix of pride and dread rise in my chest. She looked too good behind a barrel. Too ready. And I hated that the world made her need to be.