7. Tremaine “Trigger” Marks #6
I reached the bike, leather jacket creaking when I swung a leg over.
The engine was silent, but it felt alive under me—metal cold, chain taut, exhaust still holding heat from the ride in.
I thumbed the key, and the dash flickered awake, a quiet hum filling the night.
My gloves were wet, and I could feel every drop through the stitching.
“Trigger,” a voice murmured from somewhere in the dark. A shape leaned on a payphone post, hoodie low. No face, no name. Just a warning disguised as a greeting.
“Stay dangerous,” I muttered back, voice calm, low, carrying enough weight to shut him up.
I twisted the throttle once, letting the pipes bark into the street like a pit bull testing its leash. A couple walking across the block flinched, and the guy muttered something he thought I couldn’t hear. I could. I just didn’t care.
The bike roared to life with a sound that wasn’t loud—it was deep, like a low note from God’s own bassline. I adjusted my gloves, rolled my shoulders, and scanned the block one more time. Lyon Crest always stared back.
Kickstand up. First gear. The Hayabusa glided forward, smooth and menacing. Rain-slick streets opened up like an old scar, and I disappeared into it, the sound of my exhaust bouncing off buildings like a promise nobody wanted me to keep.
Every light I passed under felt like a camera flash, and every shadow in an alley was someone holding their breath. This city didn’t sleep—it lay in wait. My jaw locked as I checked my mirrors twice, not because I didn’t trust my ride, but because I didn’t trust what rode behind me.
I slowed at a red light that blinked like it was thinking about quitting.
A sedan rolled up two cars back, windows tinted dark enough to swallow secrets.
My thumb hovered over the safety strap on my piece.
Paranoia wasn’t paranoia in Lyon Crest; it was survival.
The rain made halos around the lights, streaking my visor.
Somewhere a dog barked, sharp and clipped—one bark. A signal. Always a signal.
I turned down East Marcus, a narrow street where the walls leaned in like they were listening.
My thoughts drifted to Sal, to his empty chair, to the fact that I was the one filling it now.
His ghost rode pillion every time I swung a leg over this bike, whispering in my ear: Don’t miss. Don’t flinch. Don’t trust applause.
My Hayabusa purred like a predator even at low speed.
I cracked the throttle just to feel the rear tire bite.
Lyon Crest was slick with rain and history, and both could kill you if you didn’t respect the road.
I scanned rooftops, windows, every dark gap between buildings.
One silhouette too still, one shadow that didn’t move with the rest of the night, and this ride would end bloody.
I pulled to a stop in front of a mural painted for a man whose name I knew too well. The candles beneath it had drowned in last night’s storm, wax melted into puddles like the city was tired of mourning him. I stared a second longer than I should have, rolled my shoulders again, and pushed forward.
The streets opened up into a wider avenue.
More lights, more noise, more witnesses.
I preferred that. Too much quiet was a setup.
In my world, safety was just a trick the city pulled before the next hit.
I gripped the bars tighter, leaning into the hum of the engine, letting the vibration remind me I was still alive.
My eyes swept every mirror twice—checking shadows, checking for tails.
Streetlights flickered like they were whispering secrets.
An SUV lingered a car-length too long behind me; I switched lanes, and it kept straight.
Good. Paranoia keeps men breathing. I rode low, visor catching stray raindrops, the smell of wet asphalt heavy in my nose.
Every corner felt like a question with teeth.
Night crept into the bay. The city’s chest loosened, the way it does before it coughs. I knew it was time for me to make my way to the yard.
I coasted slow toward Tino’s block, heart calm but wired, counting every shadow like I was doing inventory.
Even the neon felt hostile tonight—sharp blues and reds bleeding off puddles like cop lights were crouched in the water.
A stray cat bolted under a rusted Civic and I flinched anyway.
Couldn’t help it. Too many ghosts’ ride shotgun in this town.
I parked on the rise above the yard. From here you see the lights like a cheap constellation—Dollar Tree strung over plastic tables, browns and blacks and laughing that ain’t joy yet, just warming up.
The stage would be a speaker on a milk crate and a mic that sprays spit back at whoever loves their voice too much.
That’s where Ro would stand. He loved his voice and hated it both.
The worst kind of man for my work is sure.
Ro ain’t that. He’s hungry and ashamed and stubborn.
He’d give me everything for free if I made him believe he was taking it.
From up here, I could see the whole yard like a chessboard.
Faces blurred into motion, but every bike stood out: chrome teeth glinting in the dark, paint jobs flexing under cheap lights.
Cops weren’t here yet. That didn’t mean they weren’t coming.
I scanned rooftops—empty, but I never trusted “empty.” A chill crawled up my spine, and I let it. Fear sharpens the edges.
My phone began to buzz with short replies for everyone I texted earlier.
Tino: Gate built. Barbed wire, too.
Jinx: Bike tuned to loud. Shakes the block.
Mouse: Tony leashed. Camera ready.
Whit: Jacket clean, boss.
Unknown: We good?
I stared at that last one a second longer, thumb hovering but not answering.
Unknown always meant somebody was nervous or dangerous.
Either way, silence was the response they deserved.
I pocketed the phone, scanned the street below again, and shifted my weight like I was ready to bail.
Because in Lyon Crest, you’re always ready to bail.
I didn’t answer Unknown callers. I learned that the day Sal died.
I killed the engine and swung a leg off, boots sinking into mud near the curb.
The sound of laughter floated up from the yard, light and jagged, cutting through the tension that clung to the block like fog.
I adjusted my gloves, tugging them tighter, and checked the perimeter one last time—alleyways dark but breathing, windows lit but still.
The smell of food and exhaust hung thick in the night air, a reminder that danger didn’t always smell like gunpowder.
Walking down the slope, I kept my stride slow, hands loose at my sides.
A few heads turned; eyes narrowed, then dipped.
Respect or fear—I didn’t care which, as long as it worked.
The gate loomed ahead, strung with cheap lights that flickered like a dying pulse.
Beyond it, Tino’s yard buzzed with life: bikes lined information like teeth in a grin, men posted at corners with that casual tension you only get from years of expecting war.
The closer I got, the quieter it seemed, conversations lowering, laughter thinning.
Even music from the stereo seemed to falter when my boots hit the gravel.
I scanned faces as I walked—Tony adjusting his camera strap like it was a lifeline, Mouse hustling between tables, nervous energy rolling off him.
Jinx leaned against a fence post, cigarette glowing like a threat, eyes on me but not saying a word.
I liked that about him. He didn’t need to speak; his presence did all the talking.
I stopped just inside the gate and let the tension settle, my paranoia sharpening every detail—the way one man’s hand hovered a little too close to his waistband, how a shadow shifted in an upstairs window across the street, the subtle buzz of radios a block over.
Something was brewing tonight. I could smell it in the rain-soaked concrete.
A car pulled up behind me quiet like a thoughtful lie.
It crept slow, tires whispering on wet pavement, lights off like it had something to hide.
I clocked it in the mirror and didn’t move.
When it stopped, I already knew who it was.
Saint. He didn’t get out. He didn’t flash.
He sat and let presence do what sirens try to.
I walked to his window because I respected men who didn’t need to move to be seen.
“You wanna tell me what you scribbled on her door.” He interrogated, voice level, like a man with enough conviction to kill you and still sleep that night.
“A crown,” I answered. “It’s her block as much as mine.”
“She doesn’t want your symbols.”
“She wears one around her neck every night,” I argued, leaning closer to his cracked window so my reflection bent in his rearview. Saint’s eyes flickered, sharp as razors, like he was trying to decide if he was allowed to respect me or needed to bury me instead.
“She wears vows,” he corrected.
“Vows are crowns you can’t pawn,” I informed him. “Relax, Saint. I ain’t counting her breaths. I’m counting Ro’s excuses.”
He didn’t blink. “He’s not scared of you.”
“He’s scared of himself,” I countered, and stepped back because I could feel his patience timing out. Men like him ended fights quick. I preferred long one.
A new sound cut through the hiss of the rain—a growl, heavy, but hella familiar.
The kind of engine note that announced itself even if it came quiet.
I didn’t need to turn to know it was him.
Ro’s R1 slid into view like a black ghost, twin halos cutting through steam rising from puddles.
He parked crooked, like he always did, habit not arrogance.
Saint’s eyes moved but nothing else did. “You call him, or he follow the scent?”
I smirked. “Sometimes you don’t have to send an invite when a man knows the table is setting itself.”
Ro killed the engine and swung his leg over, helmet in hand, chain glinting like it remembered every fight we’d ever had. He walked slow, scanning, shoulders heavy. Not nervous—never that. But cautious. Lyon Crest would eat a man alive for showing fear, and he knew it.
“You got a reason for this meet, Trigger?” he asked firmly, voice gravel but steady.
“Yeah,” I replied, folding my arms. “Friday. Community night. Cameras, sheriffs, and every man who owes a debt or a favor. You’re front and center.”
He frowned. “You throwing a block party now?”
“Call it what you want,” I stated. “But you’re speaking. You’re smiling. You’re showing the city that the Disciples still run these streets.”
He tilted his head, scanning me, scanning Saint. “And what’s the catch?”
Saint finally spoke, low but sharp. “You walk out alive.”
Ro chuckled without humor, dropping his helmet to his side. “Sounds like a setup.”
I stepped forward, rain running down my face. “It’s a stage. What happens on it is up to you. But if you’re gonna wear Sal’s crown, you better prove you can hold it without getting blood on the carpet.”
His jaw tightened. For a second, the three of us stood in silence—me, the man who replaced Sal, and the shadow who watched everything. The rain fell harder, a chorus to the tension.
Ro finally nodded once. “I’ll be there. But if this is a stunt, Trigger, you won’t live to regret it.”
I smiled thin. “If this was a stunt, you’d already be dead.”
Saint shifted his umbrella just enough to make a point. “Friday,” he announced again. “Don’t be late.”
Ro picked up his helmet and turned back to his bike, engine firing loud enough to rattle glass.
He didn’t look back. Both Saint and I watched him as he burned rubber away from the yard.
He just didn’t know the lion’s den he was about to step into.
My phone buzzing in my pocket pulled me from my thoughtful trance.
It was a text. My finger collided with the screen opening up the notification.
GRAMS: You the one calling Lani?
I stare at it long enough for the screen to ask if I died.
Me: No, ma’am. I’m the one making sure the men who are calling her hang up before they think they got brave.
Three dots. Then nothing. That’s Grams. She can bless you and bury you in one blink and you’ll thank her for either.
She knows every one of our birthdays, the ones Ro recites like prayers.
She knows the day I learned to shoot straight.
She didn’t put a cake on the table for that one.
She was the grandmother I needed when life started to catch up with me.
But this time I couldn’t involve her. I needed to make my own moves and stop standing on the back of a good woman.