Page 44 of The Street Disciples
She raised an eyebrow, ushering me to sit at the kitchen table. “Men who wander in the rain always got somethin’ heavy on their mind.”
I dropped into the chair, feeling the weight of her words like they carried more than just worry. She brought me a plate, and for a moment, I felt like I was seventeen again, trying to convince her I wasn’t on a path she already knew too well.
Trigger’s moves played over in my mind like a bad film—him sitting on Sal’s throne without the blessing, twisting the whole Crest to his tune. The envelope under Lani’s door, Saint guarding Nova’s porch like I’d been replaced, the whispers in Cruz’s about debts that don’t die. My girl’s face when she saw Tarnesha on the back of my bike… that cut deeper than any street beef ever could. I’d been gone three years, and the city hadn’t just moved on—it built a whole new game, and I came back without knowing the rules. Now I was sitting in this kitchen, wet boots on Grams’ floor, feeling like the prodigal son with a target on his back.
“You see Trigger yet?” she asked, voice soft but edged.
I paused, fork hovering. “Yeah.”
“Mhm.” She crossed her arms, studying me like a chessboard. “And he’s movin’ pieces already, ain’t he?”
I nodded once.
Her eyes narrowed. “Then you better be smarter than him this time, baby. ‘Cause Trigger plays for keeps, and this city don’t take sides. It just eats.”
I met her slitz, the truth in her words hitting harder than any threat Trigger ever gave me. “That’s why I came back, Grams,” I murmured. “I ain’t lettin’ him eat what’s mine.”
“Grams, I’m?—”
“Quiet,” she cut me off, eyes narrowing. “I ain’t ask for excuses.” She studied me like she was reading a newspaper written on my skin. “You been gone three years and think you gon’ just fix this city? Devil had a head start, baby. You gon’ need more than a motorcycle and a patch.” She leaned forward, voice low. “And you better pray before you play, Ro. ‘Cause this game? It ain’t got no winners.”
I rubbed my jaw, tension crawling up my spine.
“Nova still prayin’ for you,” Grams murmured, rocking back and forth on her heels like she always, do slow and steady. “You know that?”
My throat tightened. “That right?”
She gave a short chuckle that wasn’t humor. “That girl prays like she fightin’ the devil himself for your soul. And you out here lookin’ like the devil already won.”
I leaned on the railing, rain dripping off the brim of my fitted. “You think Trigger’s got this city?”
Grams’ lips curled into something between pity and fire. “Trigger moves like a whisper, but he hit like thunder. Don’t underestimate him, Ro. I done buried too many kings in this block.”
Her words dug in. I felt like I was 16 again, standing under her porch light after a fight, bleeding through my knuckles. She had that way about her—turning grown men into boys with a look.
“Appreciate you, Grams.”
“Go on now,” she waved me off, rocking her chair harder. “And stop draggin’ storms to my steps.”
The clock ticked loud in that kitchen. I gripped the fork tighter, tasting the weight of her warning more than the food. The Crest might’ve felt like home, but every second I stayed here, I could feel the war brewing louder. It was time for me to get out of here and face the rap. I grabbed my helmet off counter and hit the screen door with a thud. I had to get out of here and fast.
I swung back onto my bike, engine growling as I rolled off her block. A black SUV slid out of the shadows, headlights low. The window rolled down slow, Saint sitting there calm, umbrella across his lap even though the rain wasn’t hitting him.
He didn’t speak at first, just stared like he was weighing the weather against my pulse. His silence pressed heavier than words.
“Something on your mind?” I muttered, fingers tight around the clutch.
Saint’s jaw flexed. “You’re drawing too much attention.”
“Attention finds me,” I gritted, visor fogging as the mist thickened.
“Then don’t give it more reason,” he shot back, voice flat but sharp. “The block’s watching, Ro. Trigger’s watching. Don’t slip.”
His gaze lingered, sharper than headlights, reading me like a sermon he already knew by heart.
“You got people looking for you,” he added, tone low, almost drowned by the idle hum of his engine. “Some of them to shake your hand. Some of them to put you in the ground. You should decide which one you want showing up Friday.”
I studied him, the umbrella resting on his lap like a badge. He wasn’t warning me for Trigger. He was warning me for me.
