Chapter 3: Unbelief
She stood just inside the room, the open doorway framing the dark, empty hall behind them. The air felt charged, too thick to breathe. They hadn’t moved further in; they were a wall of heat and intention on her threshold.
“So talk,” she said, her voice brittle.
Rah’s eyes scanned her face, then dropped to the tied sash of her robe. “You can’t put the genie back in the bottle, Ma.”
“Don’t call me that right now,” she whispered, pain lancing through her.
“Why?” Zah challenged, taking a single step forward. She took an instinctive step back. He stopped, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “That’s who you are. That’s who we’ve loved for eight fucking years. You think that just… disappears?”
“It has to,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “What happened earlier… it was a mistake. A moment. We got carried away.”
Rah let out a short, harsh laugh. “Carried away? You think that was us getting carried away?” He shook his head, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips. “Nah. That was us being gentle.”
The word hung in the air, both a promise and a threat.
“I’m your mother,” she insisted, the title feeling hollow even as she said it.
“You’re Briana,” Rah countered, his voice dropping low. “The woman who took us in. Who fed us, held us when we had nightmares, kissed our bruises. The baddest woman we know. Our heart.” He took his own step forward. She didn’t retreat this time. “The mommy part… that’s in there forever. It’s the bedrock. But it’s not the whole house, Ma. You built more rooms in us. We built ‘em in you, too. You just ain’t willing to walk in ‘em yet.”
His logic was a wrecking ball, swinging at the foundations of every argument she had. Tears blurred her vision again. “It’s wrong.”
“Says who?” Zah snapped. “The people who ain’t in this house? The people who weren’t there when you cried over bills, or when Rah broke his wrist, or when I got jumped? Who the fuck are they to us? To this?” He gestured between the three of them, a fierce, triangular energy. “This is ours. Our family. Our rules.”
“You’re eighteen,” she breathed.
“And you’re only twenty-three. That’s just a five year difference” Rah said. “We’re all grown. We’ve been grown. You raised soldiers, Ma. Not boys.”
The silence that followed was complete. She could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs. She could smell the lingering scent of the garlic bread from their untouched dinner. She could see the faint shadow of the bruise Zah had left on her chest peeking above the silk.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, the words barely audible.
“We know,” Rah said, his voice softening a fraction. “We are too. But we ain’t scared of this.” He finally moved past her, into the room. His presence displaced the air. He went to the side of the new bed and, with a calm that stole her breath, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down, stepping out of them. He stood there in just his black boxers, his back to her, all taut muscle and coiled power. He pulled back the blush comforter on his side.
Zah watched his brother, then looked back at her. His defiance melted into something more stubborn, more patient. He mimicked Rah, shedding his basketball shorts. He climbed into the bed on the other side, the springs groaning under his weight. They both leaned back against the headboard, waiting. Two bookends of dark, expectant masculinity in her soft, pink sanctuary.
“The door’s open,” Rah said, not looking at her. “You can walk out. Go sleep on the couch. We’ll be here in the morning. We’ll always be here.”
“But tonight,” Zah added, his voice gravelly, “we’re sleeping here. In our bed. The one we bought for you. For us.”
It was an ultimatum wrapped in an offering. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Every instinct screamed that this was the final line, the point of no return. Crossing the room and getting into that bed wasn’t just acquiescence; it was a signature on a new, unreadable contract.
She looked at the open door, the dark hall. It led to emptiness, to the cold couch, to a life of denying the heat that had already seeped into her bones. She looked at the bed. At her boys. At the men they had become, who looked at her not with childish need, but with a naked, adult want that mirrored her own deepest shame.
She took a breath that shuddered all the way through her.
Then she walked forward, not to the door, but to the foot of the bed. Her fingers went to the knot of her robe’s sash. She pulled it loose. The silk whispered open, sliding from her shoulders to puddle on the floor. She stood before them, utterly bare, marked, vulnerable.
A sharp inhale came from Zah. Rah’s dark eyes burned.
Without a word, she climbed onto the mattress, the cool sheets a shock against her skin. She slid between them, her back straight, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, nothing happened. Just the sound of three people breathing.
Then Rah’s hand found her stomach, his palm broad and warm, spanning her waist. Zah’s fingertips traced the line of her arm from shoulder to wrist. The touch was possessive, but not demanding. A reaffirmation.
“See?” Rah murmured into her ear, his lips brushing her temple. “This is where you belong.”
Zah shifted, leaning over her. He captured her lips in a kiss that was surprisingly soft, a slow exploration that left her dizzy. When he pulled back, his eyes were black pools. “You taste like regret and want,” he said quietly. “Gonna spend forever making the want win.”
Rah kissed her then, from the other side, his mouth firmer, leaving her breathless. “Sleep,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble against her throat. “Daddy’s are home. You’re safe.”
His hand slid lower, cupping her between her legs, not to stir, but to hold. A claiming weight. Zah’s arm draped over her ribs, his hand splayed over her heart. They surrounded her, their bodies hot, their breath evening out. The earlier fury was gone, replaced by a vast, deep calm that felt more frightening in its certainty.
Her mind raced for a few minutes more, a frantic squirrel in a cage. But the warmth of them was a narcotic. The solid weight of Rah’s hand, the steady thump of Zah’s heart against her back, the scent of their skin—it all worked on her, pulling her down into a well of exhausted surrender.
The last thing she felt, as sleep finally dragged her under, was Rah’s thumb stroking once, slowly, over the curve of her hip. A silent promise.
A silent promise.
The first hint of grey dawn found her awake. It was a thin, quiet light that seeped around the edges of the blackout curtains, just enough to outline the forms pressed against her. Rah’s hand had not moved from its possessive cradle between her thighs. Zah’s breath was a warm, steady rhythm against the back of her neck. The profound warmth of them was a drug, but the tangled conversation from the night before lay in her stomach like undigested stone.
She needed to move.
With a care that felt surgical, she began to extract herself. She slid Rah’s heavy hand aside, lifting Zah’s arm from her waist. Both of them stirred, muttering thick, sleepy protests into the pillows, but they didn’t fully wake. She stood beside the bed, watching them for a moment. In sleep, the hardened edges of their wanting softened. They were just her boys again, tangled in her sheets.
The thought was a lie, and she knew it.
In the bathroom, the fluorescent light was a brutal honest. She brushed her teeth, the mint sharp, and studied her reflection. The bruise on her breast had deepened to a stormy purple. She touched it, and a lightning bolt of memory—Zah’s hungry mouth, the sharp pleasure—shot straight to her core. She closed her eyes, shaking her head as if to dislodge the image.
She worked her long, dark curls with a wide-tooth comb, letting them fall in a tousled cascade down her back. A little concealer under her eyes, a swipe of gloss. Her nails, long and perfectly oval, tapped against the porcelain sink. The French pedicure on her toes was impeccable, blinding white against her brown skin. They kept her pretty, it was true. Every salon visit, every new outfit, was funded by the cash they stuffed in her purse, a ritual of their devotion.
In her walk-in, she chose with a new kind of intention. The pink sweatpants were soft cotton, but they hugged every curve of her hips and ass. The matching thong was a mere whisper. The white tank top was cut high at the waist, its deep V-neck plunging dangerously without the armor of a bra. She slipped her feet into the open-toed pink heels, the height accentuating the line of her calves.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The outfit was for her, a reclaiming of her own space, her own day. It was also, undeniably, for them. A visual answer to the question they’d asked with their hands and mouths.
She walked back into the bedroom. The grey light had strengthened. “Rah. Zah,” she said, her voice firm. “Time to get up. Coach will have your heads.”
Zah groaned, burying his face deeper. Rah cracked one eye open. It traveled slowly from her heels, up her legs, over the swells of her hips and breasts, to her face. His gaze was like a physical caress, sleep-rough and immediate. “Fuck, Ma.”
The curse was pure appreciation. It woke Zah, who rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow. His eyes did the same slow, devouring journey. A lazy, possessive smile spread across his face. “You tryna start somethin’ we ain’t got time to finish?”
“I’m tryna get you to practice on time,” she said, but a smile tugged at her own lips.
“Come here,” Rah commanded, his voice husky.
She took a few steps toward the bed. Zah’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He pulled, not roughly, but with undeniable force. She lost her balance, tumbling forward with a yelp to straddle his lap. Rah was moving instantly, sitting up to crowd behind her, his chest against her back.
“You dressed up for us?” Zah murmured, his hands sliding up her thighs beneath the soft pink fabric to grip the bare flesh of her ass. He squeezed, his thumbs digging in just enough.
“I dressed for me,” she breathed, even as she settled more fully against him.
Rah’s nose nuzzled into her curls, inhaling deeply. His hands came around her waist, palms flattening against her stomach. “Smell like you. And our bed.” He kissed her shoulder. “Look like a whole fantasy, Bri.”
The use of her name, here in the morning light, felt more intimate than anything in the dark. Zah leaned in, capturing her mouth. His kiss was slow, deep, tasting of sleep, and she melted into it, her hands coming up to frame his stubbled jaw. When he pulled back, Rah turned her face to his and kissed her, too, a mirror image that left her dizzy.
“We’ll finish that talk,” Zah said, his voice low against her ear. His hands still kneaded her ass. “Tonight.”
“No locks,” Rah added, his tone leaving no room for argument. His fingers traced the line of her tank top’s deep neckline, a hair’s breadth from touching skin. “This is a good look on you. Keep it on.”
She laughed then, a real, light sound that seemed to startle all three of them. She pushed lightly at their chests. “You two are going to be late. Up. Now.”
They grumbled but released her, the spell breaking into the practical needs of the day. She busied herself straightening the comforter they’d tangled as they hauled themselves out of bed, stretching their long, muscular bodies. The domestic normalcy of it—their discarded boxers on the floor, the sound of Zah’s loud yawn—clashed wonderfully with the charge still hanging in the air.
An hour later, she was in the passenger seat of their black Tahoe. Zah drove, one wrist resting casually on the steering wheel. Rah was in the back, leaning forward between the seats, his hand resting on the nape of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin. The radio played low, some pulsing rap beat that matched the rhythm of her heart.
“You sure you good to close up alone?” Rah asked, for the third time.
“I’ve been closing the shop alone since you were in middle school,” she reminded him, smiling out the window.
“Yeah, well, things different now,” Zah stated, glancing at her. “We’ll pick you up at six. Text when your last client leaves.”
They pulled up in front of "Bri’s Beauty Bar," a small, tidy storefront with lavender accents. She owned it, built it from nothing. Inside, her domain was one of precision and care—laser hair removal, lash lifts, brow laminations. She kept her own lashes flawlessly full, her brows arched. The more intimate grooming, the hairless state between her legs, was a private maintenance ritual, a preference they adored but had never asked for. It was hers. Just another part of herself she curated.
She leaned over the console to give Zah a quick kiss, then turned to accept one from Rah. “Play hard,” she said.
“Always,” they said in near unison.
She slipped out, the pink heels clicking on the pavement. She felt their eyes on her until she unlocked the shop door and disappeared inside. The familiar scents of lavender disinfectant and almond oil welcomed her. The silence was her own. She set her purse down, her fingers brushing the counter.
Through the window, she watched the Tahoe sit for a long moment, a predatory beast idling, before it finally pulled away. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The unresolved conversation hummed in the space between her and the empty shop. But for now, she had clients. She had her own hands, her own work. She turned on the soft, ambient lights and began to prepare her room, the pink sweats a soft, secret flag against her skin.
She turned on the soft, ambient lights and began to prepare her room, the pink sweats a soft, secret flag against her skin. The first client arrived precisely at nine, a regular for a lash lift. Briana’s hands moved with practiced, automatic grace, applying the solutions, setting the timers, making easy small talk. Her mind, however, was miles away at a football field. The familiar rhythms of her work—the hum of the sterilizer, the scent of adhesive—usually calmed her. Today, they just provided a backdrop for the low, persistent hum of her own confusion.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket halfway through the appointment.
Zah: coach trippin. mandatory camp all week. some team bonding bullshit.
She finished carefully placing a pad under her client’s eye before wiping her hands and responding.
Briana: I know baby. You’ll have fun.
Rah: ain’t about fun. a week gone. u know what that means.
She didn’t respond to that one. She knew exactly what it meant. A week without their weight in the bed, their heat at her back, their constant, destabilizing presence. A week to think. The thought was equally relieving and terrifying. As she applied the setting lotion, she mentally ran through their drawers. Seven pairs of compression shorts, extra socks, that special anti-chafe balm Zah liked, Rah’s pre-wrap.
Briana: Pack your blue hoodies. It gets cold at night there.
Zah: we ain’t kids ma. we know how to pack.
Rah: just pack for us. u do it better.
She smiled at that, a small, private thing as her client snoozed peacefully. The texts continued all day, a constant stream of complaints about drills and praise for her remembered packing. They were her anchor and her chaos, tugging at her from across town. Between clients, she checked her own reflection, tidying a perfectly laminated brow, brushing a speck from her flawless lash line. Her own upkeep was a non-negotiable ritual, a quiet control she maintained in the center of the storm they created.
When her last client, a woman getting a Brazilian, finally left with a wave and a "See you next month, Bri!", the silence of the empty shop descended heavily. She locked the front door, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’. The harsh overhead lights were too bright, too exposing. She clicked them off, leaving only the soft glow of the vanity lamps around her main station.
This was her time. She gathered her own supplies from the locked cabinet: the professional-grade hard wax she never used on clients for this, the lavender talc, the popsicle sticks, the post-wax oil. She laid them out on a clean towel with a kind of solemn ceremony. The pink sweats and thong were already a familiar uniform, but she peeled them off now, the air cool on her skin. She folded them neatly on the chair, a small pile of defiance and vulnerability.
She had just warmed the wax, testing its temperature on her wrist, when a key turned in the front door lock. Her head snapped up. The door pushed open, and Rah and Zah filed in, their football bags slung over their broad shoulders, practice gear streaked with dirt. They stopped short, taking in the scene: her, naked from the waist down, standing beside the wax warmer in the intimate pool of light.
“You said your last client left,” Zah said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet shop.
“She did,” Briana answered, not moving to cover herself. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of shame and something darker, hotter. “This is for me.”
Rah let his bag drop to the floor with a soft thud. “We see that.” His eyes were locked on the V of her thighs, the trimmed hair she was about to remove. There was no shock in his gaze, only a deep, burning appreciation. “Don’t stop on our account.”
The instruction hung in the air. She could tell them to leave. She should tell them to leave. This was private. She was just Mommy. The words formed in her throat and died there. Instead, she turned her back to them, a weak gesture of modesty that felt foolish. She dipped the stick into the melted honey-colored wax, the motion smooth from years of repetition.
She couldn’t see them, but she could feel them. She heard the shuffle of their sneakers on the tile, the rustle as they settled onto the leather waiting couch a few feet away. She felt the heat of their attention as acutely as the warmth from the wax pot. Applying the strip was a clinical act, a quick spread in the direction of hair growth. She pressed a muslin strip over it, smoothed it down. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly.
One deep breath. Then she ripped.
The sharp, clean pain was a focal point, a bright sting that cleared her head for a second. She dropped the strip into the trash, the evidence of the act discarded. She didn’t turn around. She repeated the process on the other side, her movements becoming more confident, settling into the familiar rhythm of self-maintenance. The awareness of them watching, of their eyes on the most intimate part of her, was a live wire under her skin.
When she finished the last strip, the area was bare, smooth, and inflamed. She reached for the post-wax oil, a soothing blend of chamomile and azulene. A hand, Zah’s, got there first. He was suddenly beside her, having moved with a predator’s silence. He took the bottle from her limp fingers.
“Let me,” he said, his voice rough. It wasn’t a question.
He poured a generous amount into his palm, warming it. Rah appeared on her other side, a solid, quiet presence. Zah’s hands, those large, calloused football hands, were impossibly gentle as he smoothed the oil over her tender skin. His touch was clinical and worshipful all at once, a slow, circular massage that made her knees threaten to buckle. Rah’s thumb stroked the inside of her thigh, just a whisper of contact.
“So fucking pretty,” Rah murmured, his breath against her ear. “All for us.”
She said nothing. She just leaned back slightly against the station, her eyes closed, surrendering to the sensation. Her body, traitorous and eager, responded. Wetness gathered, a slick heat that had nothing to do with the oil. Zah’s fingers slid through it, a soft, acknowledging sound catching in his throat. He didn’t linger, didn’t press. He simply finished applying the oil, his touch lingering for a final, possessive second.
Rah picked up her pink thong from the chair. He held it open for her. She stepped into it, letting him draw it up her legs, his knuckles brushing her sensitized skin. Zah helped her into the sweatpants, his hands lingering at her hips to pull them up and snap the waistband. The soft cotton was a stark contrast to the electric sensitivity they’d left humming across her flesh.
“Dinner,” Zah stated, his voice back to its usual commanding tone, as if they hadn’t just crossed another invisible, irrevocable line. “We’re hungry.”
They took her to a small, familiar Italian place, the red-checkered tablecloths and candle-in-chianti-bottle decor a jarring contrast to the charged silence between them. She picked at her salad. They devoured plates of lasagna, talking about practice, about a new linebacker giving them trouble, about the upcoming camp. It was almost normal. Except Rah’s foot kept brushing against hers under the table. Except Zah’s eyes kept dropping to her lips when she sipped her wine. Except the memory of his oil-slick fingers between her legs was a brand on her brain.
Back home, the domestic machinery took over. They dumped their gear in the laundry room. While Rah sorted colors, Zah brought hampers. Briana loaded the washer, her movements automatic. The smell of clean detergent was a mundane anchor. They worked around her, a well-practiced dance. Then came the duffel bags, laid out on the living room floor.
“We can do it,” Rah grumbled, holding a bundle of socks.
“You’ll forget your gloves,” she said, taking them from him and rolling them neatly. She moved through their room, pulling items from drawers with an efficiency born of long habit. Protein bars, extra mouthguards, their favorite Icy Hot patches. She folded and packed, creating perfect, organized rows in the bags. They watched, occasionally handing her something, their earlier intensity softened into a grumbling, appreciative helplessness.
“A whole week, Ma,” Zah sighed, collapsing onto the couch as she zipped the last bag shut. “Gonna be boring as hell.”
“Focus on your plays,” she said, wiping her hands on her sweats. “And stay out of trouble.” The “Mommy” instructions came easily, a familiar script.
“Or what?” Rah challenged softly from the doorway, a ghost of a smile on his face.
She didn’t have an answer. She just shook her head and walked past him toward the stairs. “I’m taking a shower.”
She heard them following her, their heavy footsteps a beat behind hers. A flutter of panic rose in her chest. In her bathroom, she turned on the water, steam soon billowing. She was pulling her tank top over her head when the door opened. Zah leaned against the frame, already pulling his own shirt off. Rah was right behind him.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the drumming water.
“Shower,” Rah said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“I don’t—”
“We know,” Zah cut in, stepping into the steam. “We don’t care.” He finished undressing, his body a sculpture of shadow and muscle in the misty light. Rah did the same.
Against her weak, whispered protests, they joined her under the hot spray. They didn’t speak. Rah took the loofah, soaping it up and slowly, methodically washing her back, her arms, her neck. Zah washed her hair, his strong fingers massaging her scalp with a tenderness that made her eyes close. They turned her, taking turns soaping her front, their hands respectful but thorough, sliding over her breasts, her stomach, between her legs in a gentle, cleansing motion that was somehow more intimate than anything that had come before. This was service. This was devotion. This was love, soaked in steam and lavender body wash.
They toweled her off, then themselves, in the same silent, ritualistic way. In the bedroom, they let the towels drop. They didn’t ask. They just pulled back the comforter on the big, blush-colored bed and waited. Numb, beyond resistance, Briana slid between the sheets. They followed, their naked bodies immediately caging her in, skin to skin to skin.
Their hands began to roam, not with the desperate hunger of before, but with a slow, worshipful certainty. Rah kissed her shoulder, her collarbone. Zah turned her face to his and kissed her lips, deep and sweet. Then Rah claimed her mouth, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him.
“Gonna miss this,” Zah murmured against her throat, his hand gliding up her ribcage to cup her breast. His thumb passed over her nipple, back and forth, until it peaked hard and aching.
“Gonna miss you,” Rah breathed into her ear before capturing her mouth again.
They kissed her until her lips felt swollen, until her head spun, until her body was a live wire of need with no outlet. Their touches were everywhere, stoking the fire but never seeking to put it out. They lavished attention on every inch of her, as if memorizing her for the coming week.
“Say it,” Rah whispered, his lips hovering over hers. His hand slid down, through the damp thatch of hair, his fingers just resting at her entrance, feeling the hot, slick evidence of their attention. “Say you’re gonna miss your Daddies.”
She shook her head, a feeble denial lost in the sensation.
Zah nipped at her earlobe. “Say it, Briana. We wanna hear it.”
The pressure of Rah’s waiting fingers, the sweet torture of their mouths, the entire week of emptiness stretching before her—it broke her. “I’ll miss you,” she gasped.
“Who?” Zah insisted, his breath hot.
“My Daddies,” she moaned, the title a forbidden, thrilling surrender on her tongue. “I’ll miss my Daddies.”
A soft, collective groan of satisfaction escaped them. Rah’s fingers didn’t push inside. Instead, he smoothed her wetness, a slow, circling promise. “Good girl,” he breathed. “That’s all we needed.”
They didn’t go further. They just held her, their hands and mouths gradually slowing, gentling, until their breathing evened out. The room grew dark. Her body still hummed, unsatisfied, soaked. Cradled between them, listening to their synchronized breaths deepen into sleep, Briana stared into the darkness. The hunger they’d stoked was a physical ache, a hollow echo in the warm, familiar cage of their arms. Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and restless, filled with the phantom feel of their hands and the looming silence of the week to come.