Bishop didn’t want words to start flying again. It was what had gotten them all thrown into the Breaks in the first place. He, Trent, and a couple of their buddies from the old neighborhood had been at a nightclub in downtown Norfolk, a spot they used to frequent all the time but had cut back on since they were no longer gang members. Most of the clubs in that area were notorious for shady activity. They had been a part of that scene for most of their lives until roughly six years ago. Bishop had made the decision to stop living that lifestyle for him and Trent, after doing five years in a minimum-security prison. They’d been let out the official way— the hard way. Bishop had done his time. He’d never snitched, he’d never given the feds anything on his gang, and for his loyalty they let him and his best friend exit without penalty. Now they were allowed to walk their streets without getting jumped or killed. They’d taken one for the team. He and Trent were no longer affiliated, and they were also off-limits.
“You know you talk a lot of shit, Trent, to not be able to back it up. If it wasn’t for Bishop saving your ass I would’ve put a slug in your temple,” Jessup rumbled in his gritty voice.
Bishop didn’t bother staring that threat in the eye. It was idle, unless the man sitting on the metal bench across from him permitted it. Sly wasn’t as high-strung as most of his members, and he ran his neighborhood with a combination of empathy and strength. He was a good leader and a decent guy, not to mention he and Bishop had history. He was hoping that his old friend would remember that and cut him and Trent some slack.
“All right let’s go, fellas,” the shift leader announced after another hour and fifteen minutes. A loud buzzer rang out, and the cell door unlocked with a clank, but Bishop was done hearing it. He heard that damn sound in his nightmares. “And if you even think of starting something outside, I’ll have no problem snatching you back in here and putting you in front of a magistrate.”
There were a few grumbles and muted curses, but they were all silent for the most part. They were quickly given back their bagged-up personal belongings and escorted out of the building. When Jessup shoulder-checked Trent on his way past, Bishop hurried and gripped his friend’s bicep before he could call Jessup out for it. “Don’t even fucking think about it, Trent. Forget him.”
“Forget?” Trent growled low, his furious gaze darting to the asshole guard still lingering nearby. He waited until they were out of earshot of the deputies before he kept talking. “You saw what he just did, B. He practically challenged me. And after what he said to you last night. I’m gonna get ’em.”
Bishop towered over his best friend’s five foot, eleven inch, tight frame. His head felt as if it was going to explode, he was so tired and angry. He had no clue how he was going to get it through Trent’s thick skull that he was over this life. It just wasn’t for him anymore. The fighting, the lying, the sneaking and dealing—he’d outgrown it all at thirty-two years old. Especially when it’d cost him valuable years of his life. With his forehead against Trent’s, he clenched his teeth as he reined in his anger. “I don’t know how many ways I can say this to you, man, but I’m not getting locked up again. I’m sick of the bullshit. I’m sick of fighting, Trent, and you should be too.”
“It’s about respect, B.” Trent frowned.
“You think we don’t have it? We never once snitched on our brothers no matter how many deals the cops offered us and we did our time. The people who really matter to us have mad respect for us. Who cares what they think?” Bishop pointed in the direction of Sly’s crew who’d moved several feet up St. Paul’s Boulevard, but had stopped and huddled around a bus stop as if they were waiting to see what they’d do. On the streets, it was a respect thing, but Bishop wasn’t street anymore. He wasn’t gonna do anything but make him and Trent square with a rival neighborhood before they got into trouble they didn’t need.
“I care,” Trent said sternly.
“Then you’ll care by yourself.” Bishop backed up a few paces and stared his friend down, letting him know he was dead serious. Trent knew when it was best for him to shut his mouth. They’d been together most of their lives, since Bishop had first gone to juvenile detention at age twelve, where he’d met a foul-mouthed, hot-tempered boy who was either quick to stab an enemy in the back or was loyal to a fault if his trust was gained. Bishop had been the only one not to tease, but instead had befriended the short kid with the dirty clothes that never fit. They’d clicked immediately because of their similar background and upbringing. Both had questionable fathers, and mothers who’d long ago wanted nothing to do with them. And over the years they’d become as thick as thieves. Brothers.