Just pain. That's all it was now. Nothing else fit.
We made our way back to the truck after Jules got himself together. We rode in silence three grown men sittin in grief with nowhere to put it. The engine hummed low as Juste pulled outta the morgue parking lot. Jules sat in the back seat, dead center, phone pressed to his ear, eyes fixed straight ahead like if he blinked he might lose control of whatever thin thread was holdin him together.
He told Mama he'd released her. "I want her in black," he said into the phone. "All black. Wit the pretty fluffy bows." His voice cracked just a little on that last part. Mama didn't say much. Didn't need to. Jules told her everything else. what hymns, who he didn't want speakin, which pictures to use. Like he was plannin a birthday instead of buryin his child.
When the call ended, his phone lit up again. And again. And again. Each time the screen flashed, I felt my jaw tighten harder. Like the phone itself was an enemy. Juste glanced at him through the rearview. "We can slide to Velvet," he offered, voice low. "Smoke a couple. Sit. Ain't gotta talk. Just breathe. Get ya mind right" Jules didn't answer.
His phone rang again. He finally snapped. Answered on speaker without even checkin who it was. "What, Nia?" His voice was sharp now. Edged. Her sob hit the car before her words did. "Jules, please come home. I need you. I can't" She choked. "I can't do this. I'm so sorry. I'm so fuckin sorry." I stared out the window, fists balled in my lap. Buildings blurred past like streaks of white. My chest felt too tight. Like I couldn't get a full breath no matter how deep I tried to pull one.
Jules didn't raise his voice. "Nia," he said flat, deadly calm, "it's best we stay away from one another right now. I'm liable to choke ya ass out till your eyes bulge out your fuckin head." Then He hung up. Nobody said shit after that.
Jules leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. His breathin went uneven. Short. Shallow. Like every inhale hurt. I wanted to say somethin. Anything. Some brudda shit. Some we got you type words. But they sat stuck in my throat. Because what the fuck do you say to a man whose whole world just got lowered into a freezer drawer?
We pulled into Velvet a little while later. The club was closed, lights off, doors locked, but the building still felt alive. Like it knew why we was here. Like it understood grief and violence shared the same address. The back entrance creaked open and swallowed us whole, the sound echoin too loud in the quiet.
We sat around the table without sayin much, hands movin outta habit, rolling up, pourin Remy Martin heavy into low glasses. Nobody measured. Nobody cared. The first sip burned all the way down, but I welcomed it. Felt like proof I was Still solid in all of this For a split second, it almost felt normal.
Jules sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on nothin. He smoked but didn't feel it. Drank but didn't react. He Just went through the motions like his body hadn't caught up to the fact that his heart had cracked clean in half. I watched him without starin. That shit fragile. Men break quiet.
Juste leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw like he was grindin his thoughts down to somethin useful. Pierre paced slow, back and forth, like a caged animal that hadn't found the door yet. That's when Juste's phone rang. The sound cut through the room and He frowned at the screen. "Why the fuck would Abdul be callin me at a time like this?" He looked between me and Pierre like one of us might've summoned this shit.
"Nigga what you lookin at me for?" I said quick, blowin smoke toward the ceiling. "I been wit you. I ain't did shit." Pierre scoffed. "Man answer the phone."
Juste shook his head once, then answered. "Ab, I got you on speaker in my office. Wassam? This ain't really a good time." Abdul's voice came through smooth, respectful. "My condolences on your loss." The room went still. Even Jules lifted his head a notch. "I might have some movement on that BOLO you sent out when your niece went missing." My spine straightened. Juste leaned forward slow. "Oh yeah?" His voice stayed even, but I knew that tone. "What you got?"
"Three days ago, Enzi got a request for three identities. New documentation. Passports included. Rush job. To be delivered tonight." He paused just long enough to let it land. "We received photos yesterday to finalize everything. I'm sending them over now. Tell me if you recognize who you see." Juste's phone buzzed. Three times.
He opened the messages, eyes scannin the screen. I watched his expression harden, jaw tightenin, nostrils flarin. He turned the phone so we could see. There they was.
Nash.
Filesha.
And that old decrepit bitch Mozele.
All three starin back like ghosts already halfway gone. Jules stood up so fast his chair scraped loud against the floor. "That's them," he said hoarse. "That's them muthafuckas."
"AB," Juste said into the phone, voice low and dangerous now, "you my muthafuckin man. This exactly what I been lookin for."
"They expecting to pick up the paperwork tonight," Abdul continued. "I'll send the location. Payment already cleared on my end, so you handle it however you see fit." The line went dead. Nobody spoke right away.
The room felt different now. Heavy but not helpless. Like grief finally had a direction to run in. Jules dragged his hands down his face, breath shudderin. "They was finna leave," he whispered. "They was finna leave like my baeebbyy didn't matter." I stepped closer, put a hand on his shoulder. Solid. "They ain't goin nowhere now."
Pierre cracked his knuckles. "What the move, Jus?"
Juste stared at the phone for a long second, then looked up at us. "We don't rush this. We don't get sloppy. They think they slick. They think they ghostin." He stood. "Tonight, we make sure they never forget our name."
I felt my pulse slow, the calm before the storm. I glanced at Jules. His eyes were dark. Empty. But there was somethin else in there now too. Resolve.
__
We sat in the blacked-out truck tucked behind a run-down truck stop right on the Louisiana-Mississippi state line. One of them spots nobody questioned and everybody passed through. Gravel lot. Flickering lights. Diesel in the air so thick it stuck to your clothes.
The engine was off, windows cracked just enough to let the smoke slide out. We'd been parked long enough for the blunts to burn down slow, ash tapping onto the floor mats like a countdown.
My guess, Nash was comin alone.
Too risky to bring his mama or that sister of his. This was paperwork business. Fake names. Fresh passports. You don't bring witnesses to that.
