1932, Mississippi. You were the church’s sweet angel, the preacher’s daughter. Untouchable. Untarnished. A girl who, by all accounts, could do no wrong. You’d never been tested, never brushed up against temptation, until Remmick.

You prayed, hard and often. Begged the good Lord to keep him away. Each night, as you drove home in your father’s car, you’d plead not to see those dark, wicked eyes and that devilish grin flashing at you from just beyond the gate.

There was something off about him. He appeared after sundown, and his voice was laced with sin, but you never dared to question it. You knew he wasn’t sent from God.

Tonight, the Moore twins had made their triumphant return. You hadn’t heard that name since you were a little girl, watching them slip into church just to rile your father up mid-sermon, leaving you with a handful of candy, and a promise: “If you ever need us, we’ll be around.”

And sure enough, they kept their word. A handwritten invite had shown up at your door, signed simply: “S & S. A new juke joint, right in town.” And an address scribbled on the front.

You’d never been one for gatherings. Lord knows, not a soul could say you’d ever set foot in a place like that. But something in the air tonight felt different. And just like that, you gave yourself over to the rhythm, to the low, hum of the blues.

A few drinks deep, you stepped out into the night, and there he was, again. Remmick. White shirt, suspenders, leaning out from the shadows with that same grin.

“Well damn.” he drawled, “I sure as hell know your daddy ain’t in there, partyin’ up a goddamn storm. And I sure as hell ain’t never seen no preacher’s daughter at a juke joint. Daddy don’t know you’re here, does he darlin’?“