Always Crew

“And her job?” Cross had his head tilted forward and to the side. “Her brother?”

Derrick stiffened, his head raising up. His hand was gentle on me, but his arm was rock solid. “Don’t narc. Let Channing do his job. Let my girl do her job, but no snitching. That ain’t a problem for you guys to take on. You hear me on that? You guys are clear of this, so stay clear.”

Cross’ head dipped again, his gaze meeting mine.

I was at a crossroads, it seemed.

Then the decision was made for me, in that moment.

A guy rushed inside. “Cops coming!”

Another guy yelled out, “Let Prez know. Get the civvies out of here.”

Girls were running around. Guys were dashing. Windows were locked up.

Heckler came over, at a more leisurely stroll and dug inside his pocket. He pulled out the phones, putting them on the table. He said to Derrick, “Get out of here. Your kid, her friends, you. You’re clear of this, Pops. That’s how Max wants it.”

My dad’s fingers now curled tighter into me, but his head jerked up and down. “I’ll be at the house.” His words were for the biker.

Heckler moved his head up and down, staring us down for a beat. “Get a job, Pops. That’s what Max wants for you. Keep clean.” He said to me, “You don’t need to worry about your dad. We got no plans to dirty him, hear that? And we’re taking off. Your boss asks you questions, you don’t say shit. Got it?”

My lips parted. My throat went dry.

I said, “Got it.”

Yeah. Seems like I chose. I was on the side of no-snitching. Then again, when had it ever been an actual question for me? I was crew through and through.

Cross grabbed up the phones and took my arm. “Let’s go. We gotta jet now.” He pulled me toward the door. Jordan was already heading out. When I lingered, he said, “Now!”

So, we went.

I looked back, seeing my dad one last time, and then we were gone.

From: Tazsters

To: Cain Group

Subject: why why why

Why has everyone stopped calling, texting, and emailing. I need my emails. I live for my emails.

Where have all the emails gone?

—The Best Twin

BREN

I was experiencing déjà vu, but not at the same time.

This time was different.

Another year, another time, and we’d been driving Alex Ryerson back.

Another month, another time and I’d be walking out of jail.

Another moment, another place and we’d be at the hospital getting someone patched up.

This time, it wasn’t us. It wasn’t our fight. We were heading home, except for a quick stop at the drive-thru for Jordan. He wanted food since we never got the burgers or chicken baskets from The Twister Sister.

Walking into our house, one after the other, we moved around the kitchen.

I grabbed the plates.

Cross grabbed the drinks and glasses.

Jordan went back outside, taking the food with him.

No words were spoken. None were needed. We all just knew.

I dipped in the bedroom, changing clothes and grabbing a blanket.

Cross was waiting for me at the door. He’d taken everything out, and I saw as we stepped outside that Jordan had the fire going. The patio table had been moved over, the stools moved aside to make room so we could eat next to the fire pit.

We all sat down.

Plates were passed out.

Food was portioned.

Drinks were poured.

We sat. We ate. We just were.

After the food was done, the wrappers put away in a garbage bag, and another round of drinks had been poured, Jordan was leaning forward. Elbows resting on his knees, he was staring into the fire.

He said, “I’m going to go to Roussou tomorrow.” The fire’s reflection was playing over his face, casting him in orange and red dark shadows. It lit up his eyes. They were somber. “I’m going to bring Zellman back.”

And even that made perfect sense.

We needed all of our crew together.

BREN

My phone woke me the next morning.

Cross was curled behind me, one of his hands on my hip and he stiffened, groaning. “Who keeps fucking calling you at—” He looked, and then growled. The phone kept ringing, but I didn’t move. This was a small luxury I indulged. Cross would field it for me, and he did, reaching over me to my nightstand.

“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath, sitting up and hitting accept.

“This is a call from the Potomahmen Correctional Facility. Do you accept the charges from inmate—”

“Yes.”

A second later, I heard my ex’s voice coming from the phone, and Cross was glaring hard at the room. “What do you want?”

A laugh from Drake. “Can I talk to her?”

“Why?”

Even though Cross hadn’t put my phone on speaker, I could hear Drake loud and clear.

“Just let me talk to her. Please.”

He turned to me. “You don’t have to take the call. You can tell him to go to hell.”