Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

I meet Macon’s gaze, both of us finding silent agreement in this one area.
Army is twenty-eight, three years younger than Macon, and one of the most
irresponsible people alive. We told Army that woman was no good, and now
he’s raising a kid alone.
Correction: Not alone. We’re helping him.
Which is why Macon will never be free. Who else will help my brothers
pay for their weddings, support their kids, bail them out of jail, have a couch
to crash on when their wives kick them out, or keep up the ancestral home?
A drop of water hits the kitchen table, and I look up at the leaky ceiling
and move my coffee cup under the leak.
Macon has buried himself here to a point where there’s more than just the
six of us to worry about. Everyone in this community depends on Tryst Six.
“Besides,” Army says, ruffling my hair as he moves behind me, “you’ve
got the touch with him.”
“I’ve got a vagina, you mean.”
Iron sweeps through, pouring some coffee, and I quickly stuff the
envelope back into the bill pile, because I’m not in the mood to talk about it
anymore, and I don’t want them to notice it.
“Put it out,” Army yells at him. “Not in the house.”
Iron nods, takes one final puff, and blows out the smoke, running the
cigarette under the faucet. He tosses the wet butt into the trash.
Army walks toward the living room. “Two minutes.”
“Arm—”
“Two minutes!” he yells back at me. “Ten, tops!”
And he disappears. I grit my teeth.
Iron follows him without a word, and I bounce Dexter up and down in my
arms as I find my gaze traveling to Macon again, grease caked under his
fingernails as he fists his mug.
It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s right. We’re all just getting up and
starting our day. He’s filthy, because he woke up hours ago. Probably already
went to Mariette’s to receive the deliveries of crawfish for the restaurant, got
Trace’s truck loaded for him to service lawns today, helped Mrs. Torres
repair the pothole in front of her house that the city won’t address, and fixed
a motorcycle he’s planning to flip.
“You should’ve gone to college, you know?” My words are quiet. Gentle.
“You’re the real brains in the family.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m afraid to look up.