10. Trigger #3
I slid deeper into the yard, hands still buried in my jacket pockets, chin low.
The music hit harder here, bass rattling soda cans on folding tables, shaking the cheap lights strung across the lot.
Laughter echoed too loud for a block that’s seen too many funerals—like everybody was trying to convince themselves this wasn’t what it was.
Kids darted between grown men’s legs, balloons smacking against chipped car hoods, sneakers splashing through puddles. Women sat on lawn chairs, arms folded tight, eyes sharp. They smiled, but they were watching. Everyone was watching.
My boots scraped the pavement, slow, deliberate.
I felt every stare—some familiar, some new, some that made my knuckles itch.
A plate of ribs smoked on a rusted grill, fat sizzling loud, and the smell hit my stomach like a punch.
Lyon Crest never forgot how to cook for its own, even when the vibe was off.
Trigger’s men were everywhere. Leaning on posts, standing near the corners of the lot, posted up by the gate. Their eyes weren’t on the food or the music—they were on me.
“Look who crawled out,” someone muttered near the fence.
I didn’t flinch, just kept walking.
The mic at the milk crate stage squealed once, a sharp crackle that cut through the chatter. A couple of kids stopped playing. A sheriff at the gate adjusted his belt, glancing my way. My chest tightened, not from fear but from knowing. This wasn’t a rally. This was a stage. And I was the show.
I scanned the yard again—Jinx had shifted, one hand still in his hoodie, the other wrapped around a soda can. His eyes flicked once toward the far corner of the lot, subtle, almost lazy. But I caught it.
Tony was already filming; his old camcorder perched on his shoulder like it was a weapon. The tape spun, red light covered but not hidden. I could feel the lens on me.
Saint? Couldn’t see him. But that meant he was close. Saint didn’t miss nights like this. Saint was the type you felt before you saw.
I moved toward the stage, slow and steady. Every step felt heavier. The music dipped low, someone switched tracks, and the hum of bass turned into the scratch of a record trying to catch its breath. A couple of the OGs near the grill leaned into whisper to each other.
Trigger was here. I didn’t see him yet, but this had his fingerprints all over it—the setup, the energy, the way the yard was full, but nobody felt safe.
The mic squealed again, louder this time. The crowd turned. My name floated through whispers like cigarette smoke.
“Ro.”
“Zore.”
“Sal’s blood.”
I stopped a few feet from the milk crate podium, scanning faces. Some familiar, some strangers with Crest in their eyes.
The music dropped completely, leaving only the sound of grease popping on the grill and a baby crying in the back of the yard.
I lifted my chin just enough to see the crowd without giving them my full face. My hands stayed in my pockets, fingers flexing around nothing.
“Y’all wanted a show,” I muttered under my breath. “Guess I’m here to dance.”
The tension in the yard was a live wire, and I’d just grabbed it with both hands.
I felt him before I saw him. That polished kind of energy don’t blend in a yard like this. The smell of cologne that didn’t come from the corner store, shoes too clean for Crest gravel, posture screaming, I’m untouchable.
Darius Whitmore Jr.
He wove through the crowd smooth, like the rain didn’t dare touch him. People stepped aside without even thinking about it, heads down, conversations shifting mid-word. Money moves silence like that.
“Roman Zore,” he greeted, voice slick but calm, like we were shaking hands at a fundraiser instead of standing in a lion’s den. “The Crest’s prodigal son.”
I didn’t move. “You lost, Whitmore?”
His smile didn’t falter. “Nah. I’m exactly where I need to be.” His eyes scanned me slow, taking in the chain, the jacket, the way I hadn’t taken my hands out of my pockets yet. “You clean up good for a ghost.”
“Ghosts don’t bleed,” I muttered.
“Everybody bleeds.” His tone didn’t shift. “Some just don’t get the privilege of doin’ it in private.”
The crowd noise dipped around us, like the yard itself was eavesdropping.
“You got somethin’ to say?” I asked, leaning in slightly.
He glanced toward the gate, where the sheriffs stood looking bored but alert. “You think they’re here to protect you?” He chuckled low. “They’re here to take notes.”
“I ain’t worried about badges,” I told him.
“You should be worried about the ones without ‘em.” His gaze sharpened, voice dropping just enough for only me to catch. “Trigger’s building something bigger than block politics, Ro. This ain’t ‘99. You ain’t walkin’ into a party—you’re walkin’ into a documentary.
Cameras, whispers, alliances…” He tilted his head.
“You ready to play king on a board you didn’t build? ”
I clenched my jaw. “You came all this way just to give me a pep talk?”
Whit’s smile was razor thin now. “No. I came to remind you…” He leaned closer, his cologne sharp in my nose. “…men like Trigger don’t lose. They… erase.”
For a beat, we just stared each other down. His eyes didn’t blink, but there was a flicker there—something calculating, maybe even a little afraid. He was in Trigger’s pocket, sure. But pockets ain’t vaults. Money don’t always buy loyalty. Sometimes it just rents it.
“Thanks for the concern,” I muttered.
He stepped back, hands sliding into his tailored coat. “You should thank me. I’m giving you a head start.” He pivoted smooth, walking back toward the gate like he owned the lot. People parted for him again, eyes on the floor.
I stayed rooted, hands still in my pockets, heartbeat steady but heavy.
The bass kicked back in, loud enough to shake the fence. Tony’s camera shifted toward me. I didn’t flinch.
Darius Whitmore Jr. had just drawn a map without even holding a pen.
And that’s when I felt another set of eyes.
That heat.
That weight.
Trigger .
He was leaned back near the far side of the yard, posture casual but calculated, like the block was his living room.
Smoke curled from the cigarette hanging between his fingers, his other hand resting lazy on his belt like it wasn’t two inches from a Glock.
His eyes? Locked dead on me. No blink. No nod.
Just that cold, unbothered stare that made men tighten their holsters without even knowing why.
I didn’t move. Neither did he. The noise around us blurred, like the whole block knew better than to interrupt this silent conversation.
I stepped forward slow, boots heavy on the wet pavement, never breaking his gaze. He flicked his cigarette, ash hitting the ground like a countdown.
Trigger’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, like he already knew the ending to this story. He raised his chin a fraction, not a greeting—more like a warning. A reminder.
I stopped halfway, close enough to see the way the streetlights glinted off the chain around his neck, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with gunpowder.
“Zore,” he murmured when I got in earshot, voice gravel and calm.
“Trigger,” I replied, low, steady. My hands stayed buried in my jacket. I wasn’t here to posture. I was here to see how deep this chessboard went.
“You enjoying the show?” He asked, scanning the yard like all these people were pieces he’d placed himself.
“Depends,” I countered. “You setting the stage or digging a grave?”
His smirk widened just a hair. “Same thing, depending on who’s watchin’.”
That earned him a slow nod. The man wasn’t bluffing. He didn’t need to.
The music roared back up behind us, Tony’s camera red light blinking like a steady heartbeat. Trigger’s eyes flicked toward it for half a second before landing back on me.
“You brought that book back here, didn’t you?” he muttered, so low only I could hear.
I didn’t answer. That silence was enough.
Trigger’s smirk vanished. “Careful with crowns, Zore. They break necks quicker than bullets.”
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 through the 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.
That’s when I spotted Saint.
He clocked me the second I stepped into the yard, his eyes cutting sharper than the rain in Crest winters.
He leaned on that umbrella like a cane, shoulders relaxed, but I could see the shift in his jaw.
The cut had his full attention. It was a declaration.
He didn’t nod, didn’t speak. Just straightened the umbrella and followed me with his eyes, the kind of silent respect that feels like a warning.
Saint wasn’t spooked easy, but he knew what that jacket meant. Everybody did.
I adjusted my cut over my hoodie, the weight of the leather hitting my shoulders like a reminder of every mile I’d ever bled for this club.
They sat on me like armor that had already seen war.
Black leather cracked from years of rain and blood; gold thread dulled to bronze from too many nights under streetlights.
The crest on my back—crown over a burning Bible, STREET DISCIPLE MC wrapped around it like a verdict—wasn’t just a patch, it was history sewn in needle and consequence.
Every rip had a story. Every stitch carried a name I couldn’t say out loud anymore.
That weight wasn’t fabric; it was a throne built on labor of my bloodline.
When I walked through the yard in my cut, I wasn’t just Ro.
I was a Zore, a ghost of a kingdom that refused to die.
When I found my cuts hanging in my closet back at Grams house. I knew it was a sign. It was a sign to stop running from my legacy. It was time to face everything Lyon Crest attempted to steal from me.
Saint didn’t have to move. He didn’t have to speak. Just him being there was a signal. That was the Crest code.
My gut tightened. Trigger’s shadow was all over this yard, but if Saint was ready, that meant my time to move was now.
I took one last sweep of the crowd, feeling every stare that pretended it wasn’t staring. Jinx was gone. Whit was somewhere schmoozing politicians. Tony’s camera glinted under the yard lights like a hitter scope. And Trigger? I could feel him, even if I couldn’t see him.
The mic crackled, the crowd buzzed, and the weight of every set of eyes in Lyon Crest locked onto my back as I stepped up.
Tonight, they were hunting, and I was the prey.