Page 119 of Double Standards
“She has Hunter.”
“She wantsyou,”Max interjects bluntly.
I look away, jaw clenched, throat tight. Calling me out on my shit is something Trigger does. Max usually stays out of it. Even as kids, he didn’t touch on my personal life unless I wanted to talk about it. We had a straight-forward, easy friendship. It’s why I trust him implicitly. It’s also why I hate that he’s speaking up, because he’s right.
But I can’t be near her. I can’t touch her. Not until I can look her in the eye without the weight of every choice I’ve made choking the words I want to say.
“We need to find Chester,” I say, voice cold again. “Before Santos makes a move.”
Max stares at me for a long beat, his eyes heavy with all the things he wants to say but knows better than to voice. There’s a twitch in his jaw, the flicker of disappointment or maybe just worry—it's hard to tell with him sometimes. Finally, he exhales through his nose, the sound sharp in the thick silence, and shakes his head like he’s giving up on something he shouldn’t have hoped for in the first place.
Without another word, he pushes off the counter, the legs of the stool scraping faintly against the floor. He stands tall, rolls his shoulders like he's shaking off whatever weight I just dropped on him, then slides his phone into his back pocket with a decisive flick of his wrist.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, and vacates the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps.
I don’t move.
Trigger is still here, his presence pressing into the edges of the room like smoke. His breathing is harsh, audible—too damn loud—and it rattles down my spine like a warning. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to. He stands there like a storm held incheck by sheer will. Watching me. Waiting. And the worst part is, I don’t even know if he wants me to break... or if he’s disappointed that I won’t.
The door clicks shut behind Max, and the silence he leaves behind feels like it might choke me.
I lean back, pressing a hand to my side, and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Another damn storm’s coming. I can feel it.
“So what’s next?” Trigger asks, his voice low and scratchy like gravel under boots.
I don’t answer right away. I’m staring at the half-empty glass of whiskey in my hand, watching the amber swirl like it holds the solution I haven’t found yet. Finally, I lift my eyes to meet his.
“I need you to check in on the shipment tomorrow for me.”
He shifts, the stool creaking under his weight as he lets out a heavy huff. “You know, sooner or later, you’re going to have to set foot out there.”
His words cut deeper than they should. Not because he’s wrong—he’s not—but because they drag across the raw parts of me I’ve been trying to ignore. I know I’ve been hiding, nursing this wound like it’s a damn excuse. But it’s not just the pain that’s kept me inside. It’s everything else. Everything I can't control.
I say nothing.
Instead, I shift gears, gesturing toward his busted-up face. “And you know I’m going to ask about that.” I nod at the purple bruise blooming across his cheekbone, the split lip, the dried smear of blood near his hairline. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easily.”
He grumbles something I don’t catch—probably intentional—but the tension in his jaw tells me it wasn’t anything complimentary.
“Santos?” I press.
He shakes his head slowly. “Worse.”
My brow furrows. What the fuck’s worse than Santos right now? We’re skating thin ice with the Colombians, and Trigger getting jumped by one of them would’ve made sense. But this? This vague bullshit? It grinds in my gut like gravel.
“Lopez,” he mutters.
I blink. “The detective?”
He nods once, grim. “I got into it with her. Earlier tonight,” he confirms, rubbing his temple like the memory gives him a migraine.
I stand up straighter, ignoring the white-hot pain that shoots through my side. “What the fuck were you thinking, confronting a detective?” My voice sharpens like broken glass. “You think that won’t come back to bite us?”
“She was sniffing too close to the docks,” he snaps back. “I had to redirect her.”
“Redirect her?” I echo, incredulous. “With your fists?”
