Page 37 of The Street Disciples
“You’re not,” she muttered.
“Maybe not,” I allowed my tone calm. “But I’m faster. That counts for something.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
I set the phone down, leaned back in my chair, and let the rain beat its rhythm against the window. She’d call. People like her always did. Not because they trusted me—but because I made them feel heard. And in Lyon Crest, feeling heard was rarer than safety.
Third, the kid who runs flyers. Copies are cheap when they ain’t for truth. The kid picked up on the first ring, voice jittery like he owed me money.
“Yo, Trigger.”
“Relax,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Ain’t nobody dying tonight. You still got that printer?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s workin’.”
“Good,” I murmured. “You’re running two stacks for me. One says Community Night. Bright colors. Balloons, smiling kids, all that fake hope. The other says Sheriff-Sponsored Outreach. Seal at the top. Make it look official enough to scare the soft ones.”
“Alright. How many?”
“Hundred of each,” I answered, slow enough to make him write it down right the first time. “You know who gets which. Smart mouths get the sheriff flyer. Nosy neighbors get the community one. I wanna see which rumor runs faster.”
He hesitated. “So… I drop these where? Same spots?”
“No,” I argued, voice flat. “This time you walk. Hand-to-hand. Let ‘em see your face. Let ‘em think they’re important. You’re not a flyer boy—you’re bait. Smile when you hand it over. People remember smiles more than paper.”
He let out a nervous laugh. “You’re wild, Trigger.”
“I’m effective,” I corrected, my tone sharp enough to cut the air. “Now listen: if anyone asks who sent you, you tell ‘em it was some lady at the community center. Don’t give ‘em my name. Not even a whisper. Understand?”
“Got it,” he said quickly.
“Good.” I leaned forward, voice dropping low. “If one of those stacks runs faster than the other, I wanna hear about it before sunrise. If you’re late, you’ll wish the sheriff was the one knocking.”
Silence. Then: “Yes, sir.”
I ended the call, no goodbye.
I leaned back, phone still warm in my palm, eyes on the street through the blinds. Lyon Crest was quiet the way wolves get quiet before a kill—still but breathing heavy. Flyers would hit hands before midnight. Gossip would be gospel by dawn. That’s how I liked it: control the conversation before it controlled me.
I scrolled to Cruz’s number. Didn’t need to hit dial yet. Just seeing his name lit the edges of my temper. The man owed me nothing and everything at the same time—a dangerous kind of balance. He’d answer, though. They always did. I cracked my knuckles and hit call, letting the first ring drag out like a warning.
He picked up on the second ring, voice heavy like he’d been expecting this. “Trigger.”
“Cruz,” I said, calm but cutting. “You sleepin’ easy?”
A pause. “Trying to.”
“Don’t,” I muttered. “Got too much riding on your doorstep to be comfortable.”
He grunted, low, like he already knew where this was going. “What do you need?”
“Not need. Expect,” I corrected. “That envelope I slid under Lani’s door? Consider that me keepin’ you ahead of a problem instead of under it. Fire inspection’s Monday. They’re lookin’ for reasons to write you up. I’m handing you the cheat sheet.”
His breath hitched quiet. “They comin’ for me?”
“They’re comin’ for whoever looks soft,” I voiced, flat. “And right now, you look like you been busy playing husband instead of boss. That’s cute. Dangerous, but cute.”
He exhaled slow. “So, what’s the play?”
