The driver immediately began talking his ear off about the new road construction until he finally told him to shut the fuck up.
When the car slowed at a red light three blocks from his old hangout, Scar prepared to dash.
“Yo, this is good right here,” he said.
Before the driver could turn to quote the fare, he was out of the door and sprinting through the dark alley. He was as fast as he’d always been…actually, a lot faster.
The cold slipped under his hoodie as he cut through side streets and slipped between apartment buildings, his muscles thrumming with energy as if begging for more speed.
He didn’t slow until the bar came into view.
The South Side Kings headquarters.
The building used to be a decent dive twenty years ago—a neighborhood hangout where people played darts and bitched about the Sox, or reminisced about the good ole days when Jordan won six championships for the city—until the Kings took it over, and the place became a war zone.
He’d been gone five years, and the club was still there, a nuisance to the community, like a wart that wouldn’t heal.
The sign on the front was new though: The Crown Room.
What tha fuck?
He almost laughed.
Loud bass vibrated the sidewalk. The front door was guarded by two thick-necked idiots with 9mms tucked in their waistbands.
Scar stood in the shadow of a busted-out lamppost, studying it all.
This was his kingdom once. He’d bled for it, killed for it, protected it. He’d done time for these motherfuckers, years of his life stripped away, and he hadn’t given a single name for a lesser sentence.
They owed him respect. But something in his gut told him he wasn’t going to get it. When one was out of sight, out of mind, the streets forgot fast.
He made sure every strand of hair was shoved under his beanie and his hood was pulled low over his forehead before he slipped in through the side door.
Nerve-grating, hardcore rap music ricocheted off the walls. It was dark, and the haze of weed smoke was so thick and saturating the ceiling fans couldn’t compete.
Tables were littered with empty liquor bottles, shot glasses, dissolved lines of cocaine, and ashtrays full of blunt roaches.
Men lounged in red-and-black attire, wearing their weapons like jewelry.
Women in short skirts and red lipstick perched on their laps, grinding hard, laughing, and drinking enough to keep making bad decisions.
Scar eased onto a stool near the end of the bar, keeping his head low. The bartender was new: dark hair, bright eyes, and the kind of curves that kept tips rolling in.
She cocked an eyebrow. “What’ll it be, shuga?”
She wasn’t from Chicago, not talking like that.
“Bud Light,” he said, voice rough from disuse.
“Is that all?” She smirked, pulling a bottle from the fridge. “You look like a whiskey man.”
“Whiskey’s for celebrations,” he muttered. “I ain’t celebrating.”
She shrugged, popped the cap, and slid the bottle over. He took a long pull, savoring the bitter taste, realizing he hadn’t had a sip of alcohol in five years.
His gaze drifted across the room. Same shit with a few different faces.
Some of the young ones he didn’t recognize. New blood, eager and stupid. But others…? Yeah, he knew them.
