Editor’s Note: This is chapter 10 of “The Grind.” You can read past chapters on our website.
In ’69, a Category 5 hurricane made landfall along the Gulf Coast. Weather experts didn’t see the warning signs and miscalculated the impact. By the time they realized this was no ordinary storm, Camille tore into Louisiana — taking what it wanted until nothing remained but a barren wasteland.
As far as Camille was concerned, Darrell was her natural disaster.
She had dealt with smooth-talking men before. She knew how to guard herself. But Darrell slipped past every defense. Versace shopping trips. Diamonds from the Ivory Coast. Four‑star restaurants. Connections everywhere. Then one day, he slid a gemstone ring onto her finger and told her he would divorce his wife, spend his life with her, and start a family.
It felt like a fairytale — Cinderella meeting her Prince Charming. But once she got pregnant, the fairytale didn’t match the reality. The dream story became a horror show.
In Biloxi, in 1969, when the winds finally dissipated and the rain vanished, survivors stepped outside to see their world destroyed. Everything they had worked for — gone.
Camille woke up feeling the same way. Alive. Was this a dream, or was it really happening?
She stared at an old photo of her and Aisha, back when life still made sense. She thought about her old circle, the girls she used to run with, and wondered where they were now. Her brother was on the West Coast. Her sister was in Europe. And here she was…. alone.
The baby kept crying.
Then the thoughts came — dark, unfiltered, heavy. Why did she carry this child? How was she supposed to raise her with nothing? A lace dress lay across the chair. Maybe she’d have to walk the streets just to feed herself.
The baby cried harder. Camille gripped the counter, shaken by the realization that scared her more than the thoughts themselves: They didn’t feel crazy. She glanced at the calendar, where today’s date was circled. In her mind, this was the day everything would change.
She walked to the mirror in her nightgown. She undressed, saying, “Men, get a good look, take it all. Some kind of man, Darrell is.” Then she picked up eyeliner and mascara and stared at her reflection. A slow grin formed. With a hysterical laugh, she thought, “I’m Daddy’s girl.”
“My baby is crying, and my nails aren’t done,” she mused as she brushed her long, wavy hair. “Men like girls with curls. I’m about to wreck their world.” She turned back to her daughter. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You’re going to learn from Mama how the game is played. Women have the leverage, not the men. Remember today who showed up for the harvest because soon there will be a feast.”
She grabbed her phone, looked at Jackson, and grinned. She’d see if Jackson will bring home the bacon. He has no choice. They could play, or she’d set him up for Darrell.
What Jackson didn’t know was that this wasn’t an ordinary phone call — she was testing him.
Jackson was in his own trial by fire. Feeding Charlie, his goldfish, he muttered, “Darrell ain’t nothing but a piece of shit. Like a damn bug, always buzzing, always a nuisance.”
When Camille’s name flashed on his phone, he scoffed. “I don’t feel sorry for her.”
He paced, working himself up. In his mind, she wanted attention, wanted men to adore her, but never chose anything real. She chased shine: status, gifts, appearances. Meanwhile, Darrell was out here borrowing money and pawning jewelry just to impress her.
Jackson looked at the fish tank and smirked. “Now she’s in a bind… and who is she calling?”
He straightened up, ego swelling. “I built this empire the right way. I didn’t sell myself. I didn’t compromise. I did it on my feet, not bending the knee!”
Then, quieter, something in his conscience slipped out. “I’m a victim. All I ever wanted was to help people… and now they twistit. Turn me into a monster.”
His voice hardened. “I’m going to make them pay.”
When Camille’s name lit up again, he hesitated. He was vulnerable, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Loneliness carried weight. He wanted company, but lust came with a price, and money was something he valued more than pleasure.
He glanced at Charlie. “Halle Berry could walk in here naked, and I wouldn’t throw her a nickel.” He laughed, then exhaled. “Go away… I don’t need this.”
But storms don’t go away. They build. They return. They press…. until something breaks.
The third call came. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then her voice was soft, shaky, but controlled.
“Jackson… watch your back. Darrell isn’t just trying to destroy you legally. If he could, he’d put his hands around your neck and take your life.”
Jackson had heard threats before. But something about Camille felt different. This felt real.
“I know your character,” she continued. “You barely know me, and you still sent money to feed my baby. Right now, you need me. I can clear your name. I have receipts from the church.”
Her voice cracked. “But I need help. My rent’s unpaid. My lights are about to be cut off. My baby has no clothes. I’m down to one diaper.” Each word landed heavier than the last.
It sounded biblical — a test, a deal. Jackson paused. Was this genuine, or leverage? Either way, he believed he could manage it. Keep emotion out. Treat it like business.
He weighed the risks. His reputation was already under attack. If Camille had something real, something useful, then the situation was worth considering.
That night, he stepped into the patio bar at Sinful Delights. Even at 3 a.m., the place was packed. It never slept. He ordered food and watched the room, calculating.
Then Joey Columbo walked in. Joey carried himself like he owned the place, and the crowd responded instantly, chanting his name after his tournament win. He made a spectacle throwing money around, buying drinks for everyone, then dropping to one knee to propose to Suzie. “I’m crazy about you.”
Tears welled up as she answered in her Jersey voice, “Joey, you big meatball, I love you.”
Jackson joked, “She did the same thing with me in a trailer twenty years ago.”
A loud crowd fell into deafening silence; his comment sent a jolt of tension through the Jersey night.
Suzie calmly walked over to Jackson with her drink and threw it right in his face. The liquid ran down the side of his cheek. He wiped his eyes and said, “Oh, Moscow mule. I prefer Casamigos.”
That’s when Joey lunged across the room like Superman, trying to get a piece of Jackson. Jackson grabbed a napkin and dried off. “Don’t do it to yourself, Joey,” Jackson said. “She’s not worth it.”
Suzie, still shaking, said, “This was supposed to be the greatest night of my life, and this shit ruins it.”
As Jackson made a pretty exit, he told Joey, “We’re going to have to table this for another day, but take it easy on spending the money. I’m going to need those chips later.”
He picked up his phone and called Camille. “I might be able to help you.” She looked at her baby. One diaper left. No support. No time. This wasn’t about pride anymore. This was survival. She didn’t call back. She texted instead: she would come, but only if she could bring her daughter.
When Jackson read it, everything shifted. This wasn’t simple anymore. This had weight. Responsibility. He stared at the screen.
He could send money and walk away clean. The logical move. The safe move. But logic wasn’t the only voice in the room. For the first time that night, Jackson hesitated.
And that hesitation was where everything began to change.
