Page 59 of The Street Disciples
I held his stare, my pulse pounding steady. “Guess we’ll see whose neck goes first.”
For a long beat, nobody moved. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
Then he tapped ash off his smoke, turned his back slow, and melted into the crowd like a shadow that knew its way home.
The air felt colder without him there, but the message was loud. Tonight wasn’t a party. And the horse just confirmed it out his own mouth. The Zore Legacy was weighed, and I was just the person to hold it up.
I scanned the yard, slow, like I had all the time in the world. The smell of carne asada off a rusted grill, somebody’s cheap cologne trying to fight the smoke, wet grass sticking to my boots. Crest nights always had a taste—gun oil, exhaust fumes, and tension so thick it coated your teeth. For just a while the rain had stopped to allow a fellowship among Lyon Crest people.
That’s when I spotted Jinx.
He was leaned against a busted vending machine by the clubhouse door, hands in his pockets, eyes doing laps like a pitbull in a yard too small. That man didn’t post up anywhere for no reason. I made my way over, casual, like I wasn’t counting every step between me and Trigger’s shadow.
“Jinx,” I rasped, when I got close enough, my voice low, steady.
He didn’t look at me right away. Just flicked his chin toward the back fence, a barely-there motion.Cali code. That meant: eyes are on you.
“You parked close?” he muttered, voice flat, no emotion.
“Couple blocks out,” I replied, scanning the crowd like I was just checking for old faces. “Why?”
His lips twitched like he almost smiled. “Good. Don’t bring that heat straight home.”
Translation? Somebody marked my car. Maybe my bike too.
“Copy,” I said, leaning on the machine next to him like we were just two homies talking football. “Perimeter clean?”
“Clean enough to get messy,” he exhaled. He scratched his jaw, a slow, lazy motion, but his eyes were slicing throughthe yard like razors. “Snakes are out, Zore. Tall grass, short tempers.”
I let that sit. He wasn’t warning me about random ops. He meant inside the Crest. Trigger’s people.
“Anyone I need to worry about?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.
Jinx finally looked at me, one brow raised. “Anybody breathin’.”
I chuckled under my breath, but it wasn’t funny. Not really.
We went quiet for a moment. Kids laughed near the grill, women passed plates, the bass rattled from a Cutlass parked by the gate. But underneath all that noise was this hum—the kind of sound only folks who grew up here knew. Paranoia had a pitch.
“You strapped?” he asked.
I gave him a look.
“Yee,” he muttered, “dumb question.”
We both knew this wasn’t about protection. This was about making sure I wasn’t the one getting smoked tonight.
“You ain’t got long,” Jinx added, voice low. “Trigger’s eyes are on you like a hawk, homie. He’s waitin’ for you to slip.”
I leaned in closer, whispering through clenched teeth. “Then I ain’t givin’ him the satisfaction.”
Jinx grunted, nodded once, and melted back into the shadows like he’d never been there.
I stayed put for a second, scanning the yard. Trigger was nowhere in sight, but his presence was thick, woven into every fake smile, every handshake, every plate of ribs passed around. This wasn’t a rally. It was theater. And I was the headline act whether I wanted it or not.
I drifted through the crowd, head low, hood up, hands in my jacket like I was just another dude coming for ribs and music. But I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t drinking. I was clocking faces. Counting whispers.
The bass from a parked Cutlass rattled soda cans on a nearby table. Grill smoke wrapped the yard thick, greasy-sweet and heavy enough to cling to your clothes for days. The Crest was alive tonight—too alive. Laughs felt forced, and every “wassup” came with eyes cutting sideways. Folks weren’t just vibin’. They were watching.
