Page 31 of The Street Disciples
I didn’t answer. She stepped closer, tugging on my sleeve. “Talk to me, baby. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Her words bounced around me. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a chain around it.
“Don’t do that silent shit,” she pressed, folding her arms. “We rode all the way out here, and you ain’t said a damn thing. What’s wrong?”
I dragged a hand over my face, rain dripping from my lashes. “Ain’t nothing to say,” I muttered, voice hoarse.
She scoffed, stepping in front of me. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. You pulled outta Cruz’s spot like a bat outta hell.”
My jaw flexed. “Drop it, T.”
“Drop it?” Her voice rose, sharp. “You think I’m blind? I see how she looked at you. I see how you looked back.”
I exhaled slow, cigarette shaking between my fingers. “You don’t know the history.”
“Then tell me!” she snapped, stepping closer until her breath mixed with mine. “Because right now, I feel like I’m riding shotgun to a woman I can’t compete with nor did I know about.”
The wind whipped around us, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and smoke. I met her eyes—warm, worried, but frustrated. She deserved better than this storm I dragged her into.
“She’s not a ghost,” I muttered, voice cracking. “She’s my wife.”
The words hit her harder than I meant them to. Tarnesha froze, lips parting, breath hitching. “Yeah, I know. She’s your wife,” she whispered.
I nodded once, throat tight. Rain pelted us harder, like even the sky knew this was ugly. Tarnesha stepped back, hands on her hips, head shaking slow. “You got me out here… risking my neck for a man who never left the woman he loves,” she murmured, hurt curling her tone.
I flicked the cigarette, sparks dying in the wet gravel. “I never stopped loving her. That’s the problem.”
She laughed bitterly, wiping rain off her cheek. “Then why am I here, Ro? Why’d you bring me back to this?”
I didn’t have an answer. The silence between us screamed louder than any fight could. She shook her head again, then turned toward the bike, voice trembling with anger. “You’re a damn fool, Ro. Take me to your spot. I’m out.”
I let her words hang, heavy in the storm, as I leaned against the bike—soaked, haunted, and more lost than when I first rolled back into the Crest.
Something had to give. And when it did, it wouldn’t be clean. The Crest was calling for blood, for order, for a king to wear a crown carved out of bone. If peace wouldn’t come easy, I’d take it by force—even if it burned everything, I loved to ash first.
Act II
Tremaine “Trigger” Marks
Trigger Pull
Recommended Song: What’s Beef by The Notorious B.I.G.
The clubhousestill smells like Sal: cold smoke, old leather, lost Sundays. His photo hung crooked over the filing cabinet, smile frozen in a way that never matched the man. Folks kept candles lit under it. I kept blowing them out. Fire invited attention. Attention brought cops. Cops brought math I didn’t like to do.
I took his chair because somebody had to. Boots on scarred wood, weight settled. The desk’s had a wobble he never fixed. Figures. Sal could juggle four shipments and three fistfights, but a loose leg beat him regularly. I pressed my palm down on the corner and the wobble shuts up. Sometimes that’s all it took. Weight in the right place.
Mouse slipped in without knocking. Kid got good at being small.
“You eat?” I asked, eyes on the window, rain crawling down the glass in lines like tally marks.
He swallowed. “Nah.”
“Eat,” I told him, flat. “We think better when we ain’t stupid.”
He nodded. Hovered. Wanted to hand me whatever news he scratched on his nerves. I made him wait. Three beats. The room learned my rhythm or it left.
“Speak.”
