Nova’s hazel eyes snapped fire. She yanked her arm free and slammed her palm down on the counter so hard, silverware rattled. “Don’t touch me.”
The shop went dead quiet.
The goon grinned, leaning in close. “You’re real bold for someone sittin’ in debt she didn’t even rack up.”
Nova’s breath hissed beside me. “Try me if you want. You won’t collect shit here.”
I touched her arm—steady but firm—eyes never leaving the man. My voice came out raw, tired, but still carrying weight. “Not today. You got the wrong room if you think you walkin’ in here with threats. This place got rules older than your daddy’s handshake.”
I moved fast. Rag down. Knife from under the counter in my hand, blade glinting under the weak neon glow. “Touch her again, and you’ll leave without a few fingers.”
The tall one laughed low, pulling his boy back with one hand. “We’ll be back,” he muttered. He tipped his chin at Nova. “Hope your man’s around next time. We collecting from somebody, sweetheart.”
He stared a beat too long, then finally whistled low, jerking his chin at his boys.
They filed out, door slamming hard enough to shake the front window. The smell of exhaust followed them. But the tension…the tension stayed.
Nova’s hand shook where it still gripped the counter. I covered it with mine. “See?” I told her, my voice unwavering. “Debts don’t stay buried, I told you… but neither do women like us.”
She breathed sharp, like she wanted to believe me, but her chest didn’t know how. Her hazel eyes slipped past me, past the gossiping men nursing their coffees, past the steam lifting off collards in the back kitchen.
And then she froze.
My eyes trailed to where hers stalled. Out front, through the wide glass window streaked with yesterday’s rain, a Yamaha’s pipes growled low before cutting off. Ro swung a leg off, shoulders broad, chain catching a slice of sun—and there she was, some girl climbing off the back of his bike. Too young to have scars, too smug to hide her laugh. She leaned in like sheowned a piece of him, arms curling tight around his neck before she slid down.
Nova’s whole body went rigid. Fire raced through her veins so hot I swear I felt the air shift.
The shop’s noise blurred—old heads arguing spades, the fryer popping grease, even my own breath—all drowned under the sight of Nova locked on her man with another woman’s hands still on him.
Her jaw clenched, pulse kicking wild at her temple. She pushed off the counter, chair legs scraping back like the sound of something breaking.
“Nova—” I started.
But she was already moving. Hazel eyes blazing, lips set hard, she stormed toward the door like a woman ready to drag truth out into the street and leave it bleeding.
The bell above the door never stood a chance.
Roman “Ro” Zore
Crest Reckoning
Recommended Song: Still D.R.E. by Dr. Dre ft. Snoop Dogg
The rain was doingits same tired hustle, pounding pavement like it had a vendetta. Folks always talk about Seattle being the city that drowns slow, but Lyon Crest been soaking men alive since before I could ride a pedal bike. Out here, it doesn’t drizzle—it stalks you. Comes down sideways, seeps into your bones, makes sure you carry the weight of every mistake you ever made.
My Yamaha R1 ticked under me, chrome spitting steam. The block smelled like wet tar, good food aroma leaking out Cruz’s spot, and exhaust from bikes lined in the cut. I’d missed this and hated it in the same breath.
Tarnesha slid off the back seat and straightened her jacket, shaking rain out her braids. She was sharp in her own way—skin glowing caramel under the streetlights, lip gloss holding up against the storm. Met her in Oakland when I was keeping my head low. She had that mix of mouth and loyalty that made nights easier, days less empty. She wasn’t Nova—but she didn’t ask to be.
“You ridin’ heavy, Ro,” she teased, adjusting the strap of her purse, eyes dancing like she wasn’t fazed by the storm or the stares cutting through us. “Got me out here in this Crest rain like I signed up for boot camp.”
I smirked, half for her, half to cover the churn in my chest. “Rain here don’t let up, ma. You either get used to it or you drown.”
She laughed, leaned in, wrapped arms around my neck. Her hug was warm, but it wasn’t fire. More like a blanket that covered, not one that burned. I let her hold me though, because in Lyon Crest everything you do is theater. And if you don’t give folks a show, they’ll write one for you.
My eyes cut past her shoulder. Past the chatter and steam fogging the windows of Cruz’s Soul Food. Past the old heads hunched over coffee and the kids licking sauce off their fingers.
Patches flickered in the window’s reflection—black leather cut by purple neon. Two Disciples leaned against their bikes across the street, helmets low, smoke curling from one of their mouths. They watched me like I was a ghost risen from Sal’s grave. Crest boys don’t stare without reason, and tonight their silence was louder than any threat. I could feel it already—the whispers stacking, waiting for me to claim a throne I wasn’t sure I deserved anymore.
