November teaser

Julius.

His white shirt was as crisp as a church fan fluttering in the Mississippi heat.

Suspenders hugged broad shoulders boasting taut muscles.

Hair, a crown of midnight rivers, coiled tight with stories.

Lips, made for sin and Sunday morning regret.

Eyes, like moonshine in a mason jar—smooth and liable to knock you sideways…

“Juju if you nasty,” he said.

Mr. Julius had no idea how nasty I could get, I mused, biting the inside of my cheek to stay composed. Fingers already itched with the memory of tugging at those vines climbing to heaven, nails buried in his roots while those lips worked a holy ministry between my thighs. His smirk was a sin. And I was half a heartbeat away from asking him to repent inside me.

“Two fifty a week for you and your drummer.”

“Three hundred.”

Two fifty was far more than he probably anticipated, yet he still pushed his luck.

“Two fifty was my first and final offer, Mr. Julius.” I rose to my feet, heels tapping as I inched closer. I needed to get in his face. His personal space, and make my point know. Julius THomas’ eyes worked their way down my body, watching every move.

“If you intend to be greedy, I know many-a-plenty musicians that will pack this place out for less.”

My voice was sweet like peach cobbler cooling in the window but laced with cayenne for anyone bold enough to take too much. Of course, I projected he’d bring the whole damn town to Moanin’ but he didn’t need to know that. That kind of power—best not to let a man know he holds it. Not until you decide he’s worthy.

“I’m offering you what you’re worth. Possibly more and taking a gamble at that.”

He narrowed his eyes. Tilted his head just a little to the side.

“How much you chargin’ at the doh?” he asked, likely attempting to do the math—calculating what I’d rake in off the sweat of his strings and the gospel of his gravel-slick voice.

“None of your damn business. Lady at the helm, remember?”

The room crackled with tension, heat, the thick scent of bourbon, burnt sugar, and the way a man looks at a woman when he knows she’s got the upper hand—and likes it.

In that moment, with sweat sliding down his temple and ambition simmering behind those sweet eyes, Julius Thomas learned what every man in that room already knew:

You don’t play November.

You play for her.

***

That auspicious day was one I’d never forget. The Moanin’ Room held her own just fine—walls humming with the spirits of every soul who ever two-stepped across her creaky floorboards. But once Juju and Drummer Boy Charlie claimed the stage? Lawd. There wasn’t a soul in town who didn’t know my juke joint’s name.

The music poured thick and hot like cane syrup—sticky, sweet, and liable to leave a mark. Night after night, we maintained a full house, packed to the rafters with wide-eyed folk elbow to elbow, skin glistening in the lantern light, breath tangled with the scent of moonshine, sweat, and fried whiting. Smoke coiled through the room like a lazy serpent while the rhythm of laughter and longing kept time with the beat of Juju’s guitar.

And Julius? Every so often, he’d conjure up some slow, syrupy tune to make the ladies swoon, dragging his slide like a lover’s hand down bare skin. But no matter how many hearts fluttered when he sang, his eyes—those slick, sinful eyes—would always drift back to me.

Shamefully, I was under the spell just like the other broads, though more composed but no less thirsty. The difference between me and them was I understood the cost of indulgence. Juju’s voice paid the bills in excess. Every other part of him could jeopardize that. Blurring the lines between business and personal was far too expensive for my taste.

So, I admired from afar.

My face remained neutral, while my insides longed to drift closer to the soul who now owned the stage at Moanin’. Tonight, he’d been croonin’ about a crossroads that had nothing to do with the devil and everything to do with a love lost.

Like pipe smoke, his voice curled around the rafters—thick, slow, and laced with grief. Words fell from his lips in a drawl so sweet it made molasses jealous. The low moan of his guitar spilled across the room like the burned sugar poured slow over hot grits—thick, rich, and reverent. And Me? I stood behind the bar pretending to inventory bottles, but every note he struck landed somewhere deep in me where I kept padlocked. The women at the front swayed like cypress trees caught in a lazy breeze, some with eyes closed, others with hands clutched to hearts as if his song had reached inside and whispered secrets meant only for them.

I knew better.

And maybe he knew it, too.

But I stayed still. Steady. Dignified. Unruffled. Because what I wanted from him wasn’t the kind of want that could be satisfied in a single night. It was the dangerous kind—the kind that wrecked reputations, soured business, and kept a woman up at night staring at her haint blue ceiling, wondering how the hell she let her heart wander where her head warned not to go.

So, I poured drinks, wiped counters, and clenched my jaw against the flutter in my gut.

He was singing about love lost, but I felt every word like a prophecy because if I ever gave in to what was simmering between us, I wouldn’t be losing love.

I’d be losing myself.

November is tentatively scheduled to release 10/10/26

xo,