Chapter Text
Sammie stared at the message on his phone.
LIS: Check up on my dad. Just make sure he ain’t dead. Maybe grab him a coffee or something. he likes those white mocha fraps with extra chocolate sprinkles if you hit Starbucks.
The last thing Sammie wanted to do with his spring break was play babysitter to his best friend’s dad. But there was literally nothing else to do.
He’d come home from Jackson State planning to surprise his folks, figuring Lisa would be in Clarksdale too like old times. Wrong. She was in Cabo with Otis, living her best life, while his parents had hauled the little kids off to Virginia for a “historical sites” tour that ended at King’s Dominion at least that’s what his brother’s Instagram stories showed.
So here Sammie was, stuck in an empty house, staring at Lisa’s text and trying to ignore it even though he had nothing better going on.
He rolled over, face buried in his pillow. It still smelled like Mama’s cherry-blossom detergent. Maybe if he came up with a decent excuse, he wouldn’t feel so bad telling Lisa nah. But every excuse sounded lame.
Smoking a little, playing Skyrim in his boxers, or catching a six-month-old movie at the one theater in town? That hit different when you were seventeen and had people to do it with. Now he was twenty, home alone, everyone else gone chasing better things.
It felt like a cosmic joke. He was supposed to be out living, but here he was debating if checking on his best friend’s middle-aged dad counted as a good use of freedom. Tre, his JSU roommate, was probably on a beach in Puerto Rico right now with a fine light-skinned honey. Sammie was suffocating himself with a pillow, counting all the ways his life had gotten so lame.
He finally thumbed out a text.
didn’t realize ur dad was like 100 and in a nursing home
Lisa’s reply came fast.
lmao shut up. i know ur bed-rotting.
i’m writing music compositions.
uh huh. that why i ain’t seen a new vid in a month?
He smirked, halfway ready to roast her back about procrastination, but another bubble popped up.
store’s been getting hit lately. dad keeps saying it’s kids, but idk… after covid n all. i just worry sometimes.
He paused, thumb hovering. They’d been sophomores when COVID hit. The Chows were the only Asian family in town. He’d seen the crap they went through. Kids calling Lisa “Cornoa” and “Bat fucker” and their teachers pretended not to hear. The Chow Storefront vandalized more than once with a “GO HOME” He’d fought for Lisa more than once breaking at least three noses that year.
fine. need groceries anyway. u owe me.
absolutely. bringing u back a spanish hottie from cabo to fix ur dry spell 😘
where ur man at? cuz u real nosy for someone boo’d up.
he taking pics of my toes rn so mind ur business.
He laughed, rolling off the bed.
It took him a full hour to drag himself from bed to the Chow Market. The place had been around since 1912 and looked it. It had the same faded red bricks, same rusted sign with the old white lettering that had once said CHOW FAMILY GROCERS but now just read CH W GROCE. The wooden door stuck a little when he pushed it open, and the familiar ding of the golden bell above it cut through the thick air.
The smell hit him first — fresh fruit, floor wax, rice dust, and the faint tang of oil that had lived in the wood for decades. The air conditioner hummed somewhere near the ceiling, losing its fight against the Delta heat. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting the narrow aisles in a tired glow.
Sammie’s sneakers squeaked on the old tile as he walked past the wooden shelves lined with every kind of canned good imaginable: corned beef hash, condensed milk, lychee syrup, and Chef Boyardee sitting side by side like old rivals. The plastic lucky cat still waved slow from behind the counter, its battery clearly dying. Someone had propped up a hand-written sign next to it:
No more credit this week. Come Monday.
Sammie smiled faintly. Same sign Mr. Chow had been putting up every weekend since he was a kid.
The market had always been a second home. When his parents couldn’t scrape together fifteen cents between them, the Chows had handed over sacks of rice and canned beans, milk, kool aid packets, and whatever else they needed on nothing but trust. Mr. Chow never raised his voice about it just said, We’re family. Sammie never forgot that.
But the counter was empty. The radio was on low, playing an old B.B. King song that scratched through the static.
“Mr. Chow?” Sammie called out, sliding his hands into his hoodie pockets. “You here, sir?”
No answer.
It was Saturday, so their second storefront down by the highway would be closed. Maybe he was restocking in the back.
Sammie moved toward the stockroom, the air getting heavier with the smell of cardboard and onions. He stopped near the beaded curtain.
“Mr. Chow? Lisa sent me over…”
Something slammed into him.
He hit the floor hard, all air gone from his lungs. A blur of color, a bright devil mask with painted horns, filled his vision. For two and a half seconds, they just stared at each other. Then the man lunged, grabbing his hoodie and yanking.
Pure reflex. Sammie kicked him square in the face.
The guy went down, cursing, but before Sammie could even catch his breath, three more men burst out of the storage room.
And then came Mr. Chow.
He wasn’t wearing anything special just his beige apron, collared shirt, and dark slacks. but he moved like someone else entirely. He caught one attacker by the wrist, twisted, and snapped the man’s arm with a sound like breaking wood. The guy screamed, and Mr. Chow didn’t even blink. He shoved him to his knees, pulled a gun from under his apron, and shot him between the eyes.
The next one jumped him from behind. Sammie heard his cousins’ voices in his head.
This was Mr. Chow.
He grabbed the nearest thing, which was a cast iron frying pan from the front display and charged.
The man coming for him swung wild. Sammie ducked and brought the pan down on his head with every ounce of strength he had. Once. Twice. The mask cracked like plaster, and the man dropped to his knees. Sammie hit him again and again until he stopped moving.
He turned just in time to see Mr. Chow struggling with another attacker.
“Mr. Chow!” Sammie shouted, voice raw. He rushed forward, grabbing the man’s hoodie and yanking him backward.
Mr. Chow spun, gun raised. “Wh—Sam—hold him steady.”
Before Sammie could respond, another shot rang out.
Blood hit his face hot and wet. It tasted like metal.
The last man standing dropped the bat he was holding, eyes wide behind his mask. He stumbled backward, tripping over a spilled bag of flour.
He bolted for the door.
Mr. Chow fired once. The man crumpled halfway out, body catching in the frame before sliding down to the floor. Sammie thought he saw pool of blood pooling on the darkwood.
Silence.
Sammie’s ears were ringing so loud he thought the world had stopped. The smell of gunpowder mixed with raw meat, oil, and something sharp that turned his stomach. His hands were shaking; he realized he was still clutching the cracked frying pan like it was a shield.
The store looked unrecognizable. Shelves overturned. Rice scattered like snow. Canned goods rolling in slow motion. Blood streaked across the freezer doors and the front counter.
“Mr. Chow—Mr. Chow—” Sammie’s voice came out thin, almost childlike. His brain couldn’t make sense of the bodies, the mess, the smell. He took a step and felt something warm under his shoe.
Mr. Chow turned to him, black eyes unreadable, gun still in hand.
“Look at me, Sam,” he said, voice level but not unkind. “That’s right. Look at me. You’re okay. You’re alright. Nod if you understand.”
Sammie nodded. He couldn’t do anything else.
“I’m gonna tell you what I need,” Mr. Chow continued. “You listen careful now, ‘cause I’m not repeating myself. Go grab the one outside. Bring him back in. We’ll load ‘em in the car, go home, clean up. Everything’s gonna be fine. You can do that for me, can’t you, Sammie?”
“…Yes, sir,” Sammie whispered.
Mr. Chow’s expression softened just slightly. “Good boy.”
Sammie’s head felt full of static. “Can I, can I ask a question?”
Mr. Chow tilted his head. “Go on.”
“What about him?” Sammie pointed to the one still breathing. The man with the broken mask.
Mr. Chow sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Leave him to me. Got questions for that one.”
Mr. Chow drove a beat-up silver Honda Accord that rattled when it idled. The trunk was bigger than it looked. Too big, Sammie thought, as they hauled the bodies one by one into the felt-lined space. It was horrifyingly easy. The last body made a dull thud as the trunk shut.
The live one—mask cracked, wrists zip-tied—lay slumped in the backseat, breathing wetly through the tape on his mouth. Sammie climbed into the passenger side, hands still shaking. The car smelled like leather cleaner and gunpowder.
They pulled out of downtown Clarksdale, past the shuttered pawnshop and the church marquee that still read JESUS SAVES, MASKS REQUIRED. The farther they drove, the smaller the houses got trailers, shotgun homes, the fields spreading wider and darker.
Sammie stared out the window, watching the scenery blur. The air outside was thick enough to taste. He kept waiting for panic to hit, for his brain to catch up to what they’d just done, but all he felt was floaty and weightless, like someone had unplugged him from reality. He could hear Mr. Chow breathing beside him. He foud his breaths to be steady, calm, almost meditative.
They turned onto a narrow gravel road lined with pines. The headlights picked up fog swirling low to the ground.
Despite being one of the more well-off families in town, the Chows still lived modestly. A single-story ranch house sat at the end of the drive, porch light glowing warm against the darkness. No neighbors for miles just trees, land, and quiet.
Mr. Chow killed the engine. “Let’s get them in the garage first,” he said, like they’d just come back from Costco. “I’ll put them in the deep freeze later. Need to make some calls first.”
Sammie nodded numbly. No matter how many times he wiped his mouth, he could still taste blood.
They worked in silence, dragging the bodies into the detached garage. The air smelled of motor oil and pine sap. Sammie’s eyes darted around, looking for something. Anything that would make this make sense. But it was just… normal. Tools hung neatly on a pegboard. An oil stain darkened the concrete. A leaf blower leaned against a wall next to two shovels. A heavy chest freezer hummed in the corner.
Then he saw it, a plastic storage bin filled with Lisa’s old toys: a doll missing an arm, a tangle of jump ropes, a sticker book warped from humidity. The sight made his throat close.
“C’mon, Sammie,” Mr. Chow said softly. “Take off your shoes before you step in the house. There’s slippers by the door.”
He followed him inside. The air-conditioning kissed his skin, and the familiar scent of lemongrass cleaner hit him. The white walls were lined with family photos: Lisa’s school pictures, wedding photos of people he didn’t know, ancestors posed in sepia. Framed awards. The couch was still wrapped in plastic, the kitchen spotless like always. Sammie remembered this house from childhood sleepovers: the way Mrs. Chow used to fuss if he didn’t use a coaster, how the second bathroom toilet took forever to flush.
Mr. Chow’s voice came from behind him. He gentle but precise, like he was reading off instructions.
“You’re going to undress,” he said. “Right on the bathroom rug. Then wash, use the hot water, long as it takes till you feel pruny and your nails are scrubbed. New toothbrush’s in the right drawer; use it then floss then use the listerine. Then bring me your clothes, the washcloth, and the rug. I’ll handle the rest. After that, I’ll tell you what to do next.”
Sammie swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Mr. Chow.”
The older man’s mouth tilted, half smile, half something else. “Go on. Get yourself clean. You doing real good, Sammie.”
Sammie found weird comfort in being told what to do. His brain felt fried, but the steps were easy: shower, scrub, rinse, breathe. Thinking could wait.
He stayed under the hot water till his skin turned pink and the steam blurred everything. When he stepped out, the air hit cold. He wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door.
Mr. Chow was right there, holding a black trash bag.
“Clothes,” he said.
Sammie handed them over, steam still rolling off his shoulders. The older man tied the bag tight, movements clean and efficient, like he’d done this kind of thing before. Then he handed over a folded pile of gray sweatpants and an Ole Miss hoodie.
“Haven’t worn that since college,” Mr. Chow said, smiling a little too quick. “Reminds me I need to start running again.”
Sammie snorted under his breath. “Yeah, okay. Like you even got fat to burn.”
Mr. Chow laughed, it was a real one this time.. Up close, he’d never noticed before how tall Bo Chow actually was. He had had to be six-two, six-three easy and how he carried it, calm and heavy, like he didn’t need to take up space to own it.
Sammie pulled the hoodie over his head. It smelled faintly of detergent and Mr. Chow’s cologne, something clean with a bite of cedar. The fabric hung loose on him, swallowing his frame, and for a second he felt small again. Almost. Safe.
Mr. Chow nodded toward the kitchen. “Come on. Sit down.”
Steam rose from the bowl waiting on the round table. “That’s bulalo,” he said, ladling some into a smaller bowl. “Beef marrow soup. Used to make it for Lisa when she had a rough day.”
Sammie sat, shoulders tight. The smell was rich and heavy, but good. He took a spoonful, the salt and heat grounding him a little.
“Thought you’d hit me with the halo-halo instead,” he said, voice rough but teasing. “Lisa told me you got a sweet tooth. Said you kill a pint like it’s nothin.”
Mr. Chow raised a brow. “Hey now, I still got some in the freezer. But eat first. You don’t need sugar on an empty stomach. Eat more, you will feel better.”
Sammie huffed a quiet laugh. “You sound like my mama.”
“Smart woman,” Mr. Chow said, cutting a piece of marrow with the spoon.
They ate mostly in silence, just the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of cicadas outside. The soup burned warm all the way down.
When Sammie finished, Mr. Chow peeled two oranges with quick, clean motions and handed him one on a paper towel. The smell of citrus hit bright in the heavy kitchen air.
“Bet you got questions,” he said.
Sammie stared at the orange for a second, then let out a dry laugh. “Man, that the understatement of the year.”
He hesitated, words catching up to his nerves. “That dude in the monster red mask…? Where is he? You—you didn’t—”
“Don’t worry about him,” Mr. Chow said quietly, firmly. “He’s handled.”
Sammie blinked, heartbeat quickening. “Handled? Bro, you, you’ve killed four people today.”
Sammie blinked at Mr. Chow, panic starting to push through the fog.
“Listen, I promise on my Mama’s life—I ain’t saying nothing. I didn’t see shit. Nothin happened, right? I can just leave, I can go to—”
“Whoa, hey—”
“Can I at least write a note? Or text my folks? They’ll freak if they don’t hear from me. Or I can tell Lisa and she can tell ’em. I won’t be no kinda trouble—”
“Sam—”
“I’m not mixed up with the Royals or the Lords or none of ’em, swear to God—”
“Samuel.”
The name stopped him cold. Mr. Chow’s hand came down on his thigh. It was firm, deliberate, not painful but enough to root him in place.
The warmth of it bled through his jeans, grounding and wrong at the same time. His pulse jumped; for a second he couldn’t tell if the feeling clawing up his chest was fear or relief. His heart beat furious against his ribcage.
He swallowed.
“I know,” Bo said calmly. “You don’t need to explain why the sky’s blue. You’re Jedidiah’s boy, been a good kid since you were little. Helping your mama, looking out for Lisa, playing in church and even deliver God’s good word when your Daddy lets you, getting that scholarship. Lisa said you study music, yeah?”
Sammie nodded, throat tight. The hand stayed.
He could see the faint stubble along Bo’s jaw, the scar nicking his forearm, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
He remembered being eight, watching this same man fixin Daddy’s truck, calling him little man. The memory hit like static. He was safe then, impossible now.
“You’re a good kid,” Bo said again, giving his leg a small squeeze before pulling his hand back. “And because you’re not twisted up in this mess, I’m driving you home. You’re gonna forget what you saw, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir. Wait. Nah.” He blinked up, heart racing. “I can’t just leave. I got questions. I’m not some kid.”
Bo’s tone sharpened. “I don’t wanna hear back talk. This isn’t your concern.”
“The hell it ain’t,” Sammie said, voice cracking. “You were almost killed. Lisa told me about the break-ins. It’s not safe! Clearly.”
Bo’s eyes softened a fraction. “I said I’ve got it handled. Didn’t think the kid would get bold enough to hire wannabe Forty-Niners.”
“Forty-Niners?” Sammie echoed, frowning.
Bo gave a half-shrug. “Long story.”
“Who even are you?” Sammie asked. “People just tried to kill you and you’re sittin’ here calm as Sunday. And I’m guessing those guys got people who’ll notice when they don’t check in.”
“You’d be right,” Bo said. “That’s why I’m changing venue. People like this don’t stop. You bury one, two come looking. So you keep your head down, pretend nothing happened. That’s how you live.”
Sammie stared at him. “You talk like it’s normal. Like it’s your job.”
Bo exhaled through his nose, then stood, the chair legs scraping against the tile. “I can drive you home. You tell Lisa I took a trip to Chicago for a week. She’ll understand.”
The words landed like a door shutting. Sammie realized Bo had already decided how much truth he was allowed to know.
Bo got up from his seat gathering their plates like they were done for Sunday supper. For a half-second Sammie wanted to grab Bo’s sleeve to make him stop, to demand tell him the truth, but the words folded up inside his chest and wouldn’t come. Bo kept going to the sink, methodical and unhurried, washing and rinsing their plates before he faced him again. He cleaned his hand with a small, steady motion snapped something in Sammie; adrenaline and shame mixed hot in his throat until it pushed out sharp as a knife.
“I’m not a carrier pigeon,” Sammie snapped. “I’m not carrying a goddamn message knowing you might get yourself killed.”
“I’m not gonna get myself killed.” Mr. Chow said flatly as if they’d been arguing about weather. “This punk wants my attention and he’ll get it. Simple.” He shrugged, like shrugging could fold a mess away.
“Are you some sorta kingpin?” Sammie blurted, the question escaping before he could judge it. Saying it out loud felt ridiculous and wrong and somehow the only way to hold the scene still. But nothing fit. He was trying to piece it together in his head. Blood, the frying pan he used to smash that monster mask in, the screaming and the pools of blood.
“Not quite,” he said. He laid the towel down carefully, fingers lingering on the edge like finishing a ritual.
Right then it felt like Mr. Chow was studying him like his parents used to, the quiet conversations they’d have about what to do with him and his siblings, with his wants folded out of the plan. Only this was different. Mr. Chow didn’t look like someone who would explain himself with a lecture. He looked like someone who would get things done.
Sam semeed to notice for the first time that Mr. Chow was methodical. Extremely so. Everything about him said practiced precision. And the kitchen light made the planes of his face look cut clean. Sammie noticed, ridiculous and raw, how the broadness of Bo’s shoulders seemed made to hold somebody up. Not that Sam wanted to be held. Not that he knew how to want that.
There was something dangerous and familiar about it all, and Sam catalogued the details he shouldn’t be cataloguing. The set of Bo’s jaw, the way he folded the hand towel and laid to the side , the low even pitch of his voice. It felt wrong to find steady competence so…attractive, especially when that competence had teeth and a gun in its pocket.
Sam swallowed hard. “Bo,” he tried, testing the name like it fit his mouth. “Look. I don’t care if you think I’m up for this or not. I’m going with you. If by the end of the week this mess ain’t sorted, ship me back to school. But Lisa told me to watch you, and I am watching.”
Bo’s mouth lifted into a small, almost amused smile that showed unfairly white teeth. “Are ya now?” His tone was easy, but there was an edge under it that kept Sam honest.
“I could knock you out,” Sam said. It was part bravado, part challenge, part a thin attempt to stay on equal footing.
Bo was still for a beat, then he chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “You could try,” he said, and his eyes flicked to Sam like a promise or a dare. “But I doubt you’d get very far.”
Sam felt the words lodge somewhere in his throat. He drew breath and let it out slow, chest tight with a dozen unsaid things.
For a second, neither of them moved. The air between them felt too close, the hum of the fridge loud enough to count as background music. Then Bo leaned back, smile still there but thinner now, more practical than playful.
“Anyway,” he said, tone shifting like a gear change. “I think you’d make a good house-warming gift if I step into your cousins’ territory.”
The brief balloon of relief Sammie had been nursing deflated fast. “You know my cousins?”
“On your daddy’s side, yeah.” Bo wiped his hands on the dish towel. “We used to run together back in the day.”
“Run together,” Sammie echoed. “That mean what I think it mean?”
Bo chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Depends what you think it mean. Lemme clean up, then we’ll head to the airport. You got your ID, right? I’ll buy you whatever you need once we get there.”
He started around the table, casual as if they were about to grab dinner instead of cross state lines.
“And Sammie,” he added over his shoulder, “let’s keep it a surprise till we get there. No need to text ’em.”
Sammie nodded, good as gold. Whatever this was, he wasn’t about to argue again. The pipes started wheezing a minute later, followed by the spray of the shower down the hall.
Then his pocket buzzed.
He’d forgotten his phone was even on him. The screen lit up: Lis.
Well? Did you get there? Is he alive?
Sammie stared at the message, thumb hovering. Did she know? Was this some kind of setup? Maybe she really did just want a check-in. Maybe she had a therapist recommendation for whatever this was. Maybe Cabo was nice. Mostly, he wondered why her dad was hot.
Your dad’s fine. Helping him with errands.
<3 Thank you. Lemme know if he gets cranky. I’ll sic Mom on him.
He exhaled, phone hot against his skin.
By eight p.m., Sammie was in Chicago, still wrapped in Bo’s hoodie, staring out at the skyline.
Chicago was a whole different beast from Clarksdale. He wasn’t even sure they belonged to the same species. Clarksdale was a town where everybody knew everybody and life crawled by. The most excitement it got was the Fall Festival ferris wheel and a handful of tired-looking rides.
But Chicago was alive. Fast cars, lights stacked to heaven, people too pretty to be real. Sammie had the feeling he could stay here for years and still never run out of things to discover.
“I did not know you had it like this, Bo.” He peeled away from the window, eyeing the older man scrolling on his phone. “This is your room, right?”
It was rhetorical, obviously. The place wasn’t a room. It was a collection of them, bigger than Sammie’s whole college apartment. There was a terrace with a view, a baby grand piano sitting in the atrium, a dining table long enough for a wedding party, and three separate bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. They stood now in the master suite, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline and a California king bed draped in sheets that probably got replaced after every stay.
He looked at the bathroom and had been amazed at the white marble everything, a deep-ass soaking tub, a “bath menu,” another view of the city beyond.
“I guess I’m staying at the Holiday Inn?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
Bo hadn’t mentioned another room. They’d been dropped off out front by a black car, greeted with champagne, ushered upstairs by an overly helpful bellhop who pointed out every button and made sure Bo knew he’d be “on call” all night. But no one had handed Bo an extra key.
“Are you making a joke?” Bo asked, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Well, you haven’t told me where I’m staying,” Sammie said, fiddling with the aglet on his hoodie string. “Figured you’d want some privacy after, you know, this morning.”
Bo snorted. “Thought booking a suite with three rooms would be enough space. But if you wanted four, next time I’ll book the entire floor.”
He was joking—bantering—but Sammie refused to fidget under it.
“Man, screw you,” Sammie muttered, not quite smiling. “I just asked a question. Coulda used your words.”
Bo laughed and sat on the edge of the bed, untying his boots. “I texted Stack, by the way. We’re meeting him at their club, Verbatim, tomorrow night. Figured we’ve had a lot of excitement today.”
“Verbatim?” Sammie’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yeah,” Bo said, glancing over. “Heard of it?”
Heard of it? Sammie’s mind blanked. He had no clue his older cousins owned Verbatim—the hottest club in Chicago. Half the people he knew who came up here bragged about just trying to get in and getting turned away. It was supposed to be more exclusive than anything in Miami.
“I thought it closed after the owner—uh, James St. Patrick—died, last year,” Sammie said slowly. “You’re telling me Smoke and Stack run that Verbatim?”
Bo’s said blandly.” Didn’t realize I was walking into something this exclusive.”
Sammie glanced down at himself, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. “Can’t even explain it right now. We’re gonna need new threads. I’m not stepping into any club looking like this. Your stuff’s fine and all, but—”
Bo perked. “I get it. I was your age once. Wanted to look sharp for all the fine shawties.”
“You’re stuck in 2008,” Sammie said.
“Maybe.” Bo chuckled, pulling a wallet from his pocket. The black metal card caught the light like a mirror. “I promised you a whole new wardrobe. Get what you want. Before you check out, bring it to me so I can throw a few things in the cart. Deal?”
“Deal,” Sammie said automatically, still staring at the Amex like it might bite. “What about food?”
“Room service,” Bo said. “There’s a menu somewhere. Order whatever looks good.”
“What do you want?”
“Burger’s fine. Let me know when it’s here.”
Sammie flipped through the tablet that served as a menu: wagyu burgers, truffle fries, caviar-topped milkshakes. Half the dishes came with origin stories longer than the ingredients list. He ordered two of the simplest things on it, and within thirty minutes there was a knock.
The same bellhop reappeared, wheeling in silver domes on a polished cart. The scent hit first: buttered brioche, seared beef, rosemary salt. He described everything like a sommelier. Naxos potato fries steeped in black truffle oil, wagyu patties, Tahitian-vanilla shakes made with glacier ice. Sammie signed the receipt, added a heavy tip, and shut the door.
Bo was stretched out on the bed in the bedroom, phone beside him, shoes off. One hand disappeared underneath his shirt and drew it up, revealing the expanse of light brown skin and sparse happy trail… tralini.
Sammie cleared his throat.
“Food’s here,” he said, setting the domes on the low table near the bed. He lifted one, and steam curled up into the room, smelling like money and butter.
Bo sat up, eyes flicking toward him, then the food. “Hmm.”
“Right” Sammie said, sitting opposite. “This ain’t McDonald’s.”
Bo smiled, slow and easy. “You’d be surprised. I’ve eaten food worth more than rent, and it still don’t beat wings from Pynk on a Titty Tuesday.”
Sammie snorted, nearly choking on a fry. “Pynk? Like, thee Pynk? With Mercedes?”
Bo laughed, deep and unhurried. “You think you’re the only one knows about that place? Your cousins and I used to hit it after a deal. Uncle Clifford always took care of us.”
Sammie nearly choked on a fry, the salt burning his throat. "Pynk! You talkin' about that strip club with Mercedes! The one with the neon pink sign shaped like legs?"
"You think you're the only one who knows about the Pynk?" Bo's eyes crinkled at the edges. "Shit. Your cousins and I used to take our best hitters there after a deal was made. Uncle Clifford would clear out the VIP section, champagne already on ice, girls already picked out. Knew how to treat us right."
Sammie could see Stack near the stage, diamond rings catching purple light as he threw down crisp hundreds, getting a dance from a girl with skin like polished bronze. Stack was fun like that, always willing to be pulled into a scheme, listen to a man out before passing judgment. He was smooth in his charm, voice like honey. Smoke was completely different. The coldest motherfucker with a heart on this side of the Mississippi. His face a permanent stone mask that only cracked into a smile for Annie. Sammie couldn't imagine him having fun in no damn strip club, sitting rigid in a leather chair while everyone else whooped and hollered, no matter how good those wings were, sauce-slick and piled high. And Bo...
Sammie stuffed his face with a mouthful of fries, the salt stinging a cut on his lip. Who had caught Bo's eye in that strip club? Which dancer had made him lean forward in his seat? Sammie felt a hot stab of confused jealousy and arousal coiling in his gut like a snake.
"You're pulling my leg," Sammie said, washing down the fries with a large swallow of his ice-cold soda, condensation wetting his fingers. "Can't see y'all in no strip club."
"You wanna see some pictures?" Bo's eyebrows shot up as he reached for his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. "I got my pictures organized by occasion and year, all the way back to 2015."
Sammie let out a loud "NAH!" so forceful it made his throat hurt, vehemently shaking his head, hands up in surrender.
Bo laughed at his reaction, deep and genuine. "You're way too easy..."
"Yeah, yeah," Sammie rolled his eyes. "I was just scared I was gonna see somethin' I'd regret, like your pale ass being spanked or some shit." He shook his head, trying to clear that particular thought away, though the image burned behind his eyelids. "Heavy hitters though?"
"Heard that?" Bo's voice dropped lower, eyes suddenly watchful.
Bo’s room was bathed in a low cobalt glow from a recessed LED panel overhead. The large flat-screen TV flickered against walls.
Lisa was an unabashed romantic, adored every reality-dating show she could find: Love Is Blind, Married at First Sight, 90 Day Fiancé and streamed To All the Boys I Loved Before on repeat. Sammie was the resident anime enthusiast, devoured My Hero Academia, Naruto, the latest Jujutsu Kaisen, and cartoons like Bob’s Burgers and Family Guy. Bo, it seemed, defied all categories.
Sammie didn’t know what to call this show. It gave him anxiety.
On the screen, an middled-age woman (the apparent first female president of the united states) shrieked “MIKE!” Everyone else screamed at each other, except for the wet-looking man leaning close to the woman to whisper obvious thing in his ears. Bo’s eyes stayed fixed on the set, jaw setting.
“Me and your cousins didn’t grow up like you and Lisa,” he began slowly, turning to Sammie. “My earliest memories are of digging through trash heaps for broken Nintendos and old cell phones, anything I could break open for precious chips and metal. Then my mom put me on a plane to Tennessee, land of supposed golden streets. The flight attendant gave me my first taste of America: I had four piece nugget, a small french fry, and medium coke. First sip I had I was had I was in Heaven, still my favorite soda.”
Sammie watched him pick at the crust of his half-eaten burger. “I didn’t know a lick of English. Picked at at the airport by my Aunt and Uncle, strangers to me, threw me to work behind a grocery counter. They were stingy with food and affection. Couldn’t write to Father or Mother. I was supposed to be grateful for this opportunity but I needed someone. So I rushed toward anyone that gave me a crumb of attention.”
Bo paused, shoulders tensing. “Before you and Lisa, I got pulled into a network—cousins-by-association, they called themselves. That’s how I met Grace and the Dragon. Next thing I knew, I was a 49er, then the youngest Red Pole below the Mason-Dixon, then the youngest White Fan overseeing territories in Virginia, the Carolinas, all the way to Northern Florida. I ran logistics for their commerce—all for the Dragon.”
He took a long sip of soda, eyes dark behind the can’s rim. “Asians genrally don’t usually trust each other Asians or outsiders. But I was the bridge: I could break bread with anyone. I was diplomatic to Black crews, Hispanics, Irish—whoever. Sorry, Sam, I know I’m rambling.”
“Nah,” Sammie said, wanting ask ever more questions like what was Red Pole or White Fan. He had never heard of those terms before but he knew better than to interrupt someone's flow. “Go on.”
Bo exhaled. “I was a big deal for a minute, climbing the ranks. But I never wanted that life. Most of us don’t live old. I washed my hands of it.”
Sammie nodded, realizing how rare it was to walk away. “No one’s trying to pull you back in?”
“A kid from my old territory thinks if he pushes me out, he’ll earn cred,” Bo said with a roll of his eyes. “I thought this year I’d finally get a break—Lisa’s in Mexico. Grace’s in Singapore. I’ve got the shop to myself. Thinkin’ maybe even go on a real date.” He glanced at Sammie.
Sammie’s eyebrows shot up. “Does your daughter know?”
“Ya think she wants to know where her daddy gets his tip wet?” Bo’s smirk was brief but sharp.
Sammie’s cheeks warmed. “No—just… my apps are bone-dry. Didn’t think you could find anyone in Clarksdale.”
Bo quirked an eyebrow. “SmokeStack’s cousin ain’t got that sway?”
“Shut up,” Sammie laughed. “I get attention. But girls want six-foot-fives with green eyes, pro-baller futures. They don’t want a regular guy who drives a lemon.”
“Maybe they want confidence,” Bo said, hands raised in peace. “Most girls I know like a guy who approaches respectfully, owns his actions.”
“Confidence,” Sammie echoed, tasting the word.
“You’re not ugly,” Bo said gently. “Lisa’s sent me your TikToks. You’ve got talent. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”
“Cornball,” Sammie muttered, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
Bo stacked their plates neatly on the dresser, then sat on the bed’s edge, close enough that Sammie felt the heat radiating off him. Sammie’s gaze dropped to the mismatched socks. These were actually Bo’s and rested around his ankles.
“C’mon, I’m not gonna bite,” Bo whispered, voice a husky caress. “This is a safe space.”
Bo was unbearably corny. And yet…
“Supposed to practice with you?” Sammie stammered, hand sliding toward the duvet. “S’not how it works. You’re gonna work–”
“Sounds like an excuse,” Bo teased. “You’re staring at your socks. Not confident enough to look at me. Flirt a little. Look at me.”
Heat bloomed in Sammie’s chest. He lifted his eyes and met Bo’s gaze. They weren’t black as he had originally assumed but a deep brown. Up close, every detail was sharper: the rough stubble shadowing Bo’s upper lip, the faint scars marring his cheeks, the soft curve of pink lips parted. Sammie realized how intoxicating a man’s breath could be, how warm.
Sammie didn’t how long he was staring. Probably long enough to look like a fool.
“Can I kiss you?” Bo asked, voice low, both question and promise.
Sammie’s heart thundered. He nodded, body alive with electric tension. Bo slid an arm around him, drawing him onto his lap. Their lips met in a tentative brush, then deepened into a fervent, hungry kiss. Sammie’s arms locked around Bo’s neck, legs winding around his hips as they melted into a rhythm of urgent kisses and breathless moans.
Girls had always felt soft, warm and sugar sweet. But this was different: firm and thrilling. Bo tasted like Irish Spring and charred burger grease, something metallic under it all. Sammie lurched at the friction of denim and cotton against his own arousal.
They stumbled onto the center of the bed, laughing into each other’s mouths. Sammie’s fingers curled in Bo’s jean loops, feeling the hard outline of desire pressed against him. Bo tugged at his hoodie, baring skin. He bit Sammie’s jaw. Sammie arched, moaning into Bo’s mouth.
“Good boy,” Bo purred against his ear, grinding harder. “You like that?”
“Fuck,” Sammie gasped abruptly then sagged against Bo, not wanting to move at all. “Fuck. These are my only pants and underwear. I haven’t ordered anything yet.”
“Call Jeeves,” Bo said, rolling off to the side but keeping Sammie close, waving off Sammie’s confused look because who the fuck was Jeeves. “I’ll tell the grassfed kid to hit the store. PJs, day clothes—whatever you need, he’ll sort it. You can still order your other clothes tonight and he’ll have full wardrobe to delivered well before we go out.”
Sammie frowned. “So I’m walking around buck-naked until then?”
“There are complimentary robes,” Bo said with a sly grin. “Or nudity, if you prefer. I don’t mind.”
Sammie blinked feeling all of his twenty years suddenly.
“I don’t mind,” Bo repeated. “At all. You’re all right.”
Sammie’s heart pounded. “This isn’t a one-time thing, right? Because if it is, no hard feelings. I-I had fun, just never did this with a guy before.” He moved to sit up and Bo coaxed him back down, pulling him closer with the same steady rhythmic breath of earlier.
Bo tipped up Sammie’s chin and kissed him softly, deeply, reassuringly. “Breathe. Can you do that for me, baby? Let’s see where this goes. Yeah?”