8. Ro #2
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.
“You picking a side, Saint?” I asked, voice tight.
His mouth curved, not a smile—just acknowledgment. “I already did.”
The window rolled up, and the SUV melted back into the street like a shadow that knew its place.
The hum of his engine faded into the mist, but his words sat in my chest like a blade turned sideways. I let the R1 idle under me, exhaust breathing heavy, visor dripping rain. Everything that’d gone down since I hit Lyon Crest stacked in my head like dice I didn’t throw.
The funeral—dirt on Sal’s coffin, the preacher talking loyalty like it wasn’t already bleeding out in the crowd.
Nova’s eyes cuttin’ me open, hazel fire burning hotter than the rain.
My baby girl I barely knew, reaching for me like she recognized my blood before I could even say her name.
Tarnesha sliding up behind me on the bike, a reminder of how I tried to patch holes with the wrong fabric.
Trigger in every shadow, moving pieces like the board belonged to him.
And Saint—quiet, patient, loyal in a way that felt like warning shots I ain’t earned.
The Crest smelled different now—less home, more hustle.
Less block parties, more block pressure.
Every alley was whispering my name like it wanted to see me fold.
I clenched the bars tighter, throttle twitching in my palm.
I wasn’t scared, but I wasn’t dumb either.
Out here, paranoia ain’t weakness—it’s survival.
Saint’s words replayed: “Some to shake your hand. Some to put you in the ground.”
I spit under my visor, jaw locked. “Let ‘em line up then,” I muttered to myself. “I’ll figure out which is which when the smoke clears.”
My ride to the apartment was a sermon from the streets, a calm to my racing mind.
My R1 roared beneath me, the engine’s growl bouncing off wet brick like it was testing echoes.
The rain had slowed to a mist, but Lyon Crest was still slick, pavement glossed with oil rainbows and the smell of exhaust thick in the air.
I cracked the visor just enough to let that damp night bite at my face, stinging my cheeks and waking me up more than caffeine ever could.
Neon signs flickered over liquor stores and shuttered shops, their buzz mixing with the hum of the engine like static on a bad record.
I gunned it down Central, the speedometer creeping higher, puddles hissing under my tires as the bike leaned low into turns.
The Crest at night was alive, not loud but breathing—a constant hum of distant sirens, a bassline from a car rattling two blocks away, somebody yelling on a corner just loud enough for me to clock the tone but not the words.
Rolling through these streets, you felt the history in every crack of sidewalk, every boarded window, every mural half-faded but still watching you.
This was home, even when it wanted to kill you.
The apartment wasn’t far, but I took the long way, weaving through alleys and side streets, checking mirrors like they owed me answers.
You didn’t ride Crest streets without feeling eyes on your back.
I let the R1 breathe, exhaust popping sharp as I downshifted near a red light that never stayed red long enough for anybody to respect it.
The air smelled like fried food from a taco stand still working late, damp earth from a busted fire hydrant, and that faint metallic tang the city wore like cheap cologne.
Back at the spot, I leaned my helmet against the wall, the soft thud echoing in the too-quiet space.
The apartment smelled like her perfume and lemon cleaning spray, clashing with the outside stench of rain and street.
The kind of contrast that made you feel like you didn’t belong in one world or the other.
My boots squeaked against the linoleum, water pooling underneath me like a map of everywhere I’d been tonight.
Out the window, the Crest stretched out slick pavement reflecting every color like broken glass.
A sedan crawled past too slow, its taillights bleeding red onto wet concrete before it disappeared into the night.
I stayed at the glass, fingers tapping against the frame, mind still racing even though the streets had gone quiet.
Tarnesha sat curled on the couch, scrolling her Sidekick, lip gloss still perfect from earlier. She glanced up, that “you exhausting me” look sitting heavy in her eyes.
“You out all night again,” she muttered, flipping her phone shut.
“Didn’t know I’d be gone all night,” I replied, peeling my jacket off, dripping onto the floor.
She exhaled sharp through her nose, brushed past me smelling like vanilla and smoke. Bedroom door slammed soft but final.
The slam echoed through the apartment, sharp and clean like a gun going off in a hallway.
I stayed still for a second, wet leather creaking as I shrugged out of my jacket, water dripping in a rhythm on the floor.
Tarnesha’s perfume lingered heavy in the air, sweet but with a sharp bite, like she’d sprayed it on to armor up.
“You think I’m stupid, Ro?” Her voice sliced through the air, coming from behind the closed door.
She swung it open a moment later, silk bonnet on, lashes perfect, that fire in her dark brown eyes that no gloss could soften.
“You walk in here smellin’ like rain and trouble, actin’ like I don’t see through you.
” She stepped closer, arms folded, nails tapping against her arm like she was counting strikes.
“Ain’t nobody playin’ you, T,” I muttered, kicking my boots off by the door, careful with my tone. She wasn’t yelling—yet—but the edge in her voice was louder than screaming.
“Playin’ me?” She scoffed, shaking her head.
“Boy, you disappear every night, come home lookin’ like the city spit you out, and I’m supposed to think you just cruisin’?
Miss me with that. You creepin’, huh? That’s what it is.
” She jabbed a finger at my chest. “That lil’ storm look in your eyes? That’s guilt.”
I clenched my jaw, running a hand over my face, rainwater dripping down my fingers. “You know what I been dealin’ with, T,” I rasped. “This ain’t about no other woman. This city… it’s eating itself alive, and I gotta?—”
“You gotta what?” she cut me off, voice sharp enough to draw blood.
“Gotta play knight in rusty armor. Gotta go runnin’ after ghosts while I sit here wonderin’ if I’m the damn fool in this story?
” Her voice cracked, but the anger burned hotter than hurt.
“I left my own spot to hold you down, and you out here makin’ me look dumb. ”
The tension was thick, pressing against my chest harder than my jacket ever could. I stayed quiet for a beat too long. Wrong move. She laughed—low, bitter. “You ain’t got nothin’ to say, huh? Figures. Go ahead, Ro. Keep runnin’ them streets. One day, I might not be here when you crawl back in.”
I stepped closer, hands open like I could calm her with nothing but presence. “T, it ain’t like that,” I murmured, voice low but steady. “I ain’t creepin’. I’m tryin’ to keep us safe. Tryin’ to keep you outta the mess that follows me.”
“Safe?” She scoffed, snatching her Sidekick off the counter. “This ain’t safety, this is chaos. And you can’t keep me outta somethin’ you already dragged me into.” She brushed past me again, harder this time, shoulder knocking mine, bedroom door slamming loud enough to rattle a picture frame.
I leaned on the window frame, watching Lyon Crest breathe under the glowing streetlights. Even quiet, the city felt loud. Trigger’s fingerprints were everywhere, and Friday was creeping closer like a storm I couldn’t sidestep.
Behind me, the silence of Tarnesha’s closed door pressed heavy against my shoulders.
She didn’t ask questions anymore; she just stacked her suspicions like ammo, waiting for the right night to pull the trigger.
I couldn’t blame her. My absence reeked of secrets, and in this city, secrets always came with bodies.
I ran my hand over the chain Nova bought me back when we thought love could save us. The rain outside whispered against the glass. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed like wolves.
Friday wasn’t a block party. It was a trap. And I was walking right into it.