CHAPTER ONE

"To live and die in LA, it's the place to be. And the angels go. You've got to be there to know it. Where everybody wanna see."

-Tupac Shakur

LONG BEACH, CA — 1996

The Los Angeles skyline stretched across the horizon, a glittering sprawl of lights drowning in smog and ambition. Palm trees loomed in the thick night air, their long shadows slashing across cracked sidewalks and graffiti-tagged walls. The city hummed with tension, a pulse that never slowed, never slept.

A Cadillac crept through the block, bass rattling the pavement as Dr. Dre's The Chronic boomed through subwoofers, cutting through the sounds of sirens in the distance. On the streets of Long Beach, the night was alive — thick with smoke, adrenaline, and the kind of energy that could flip at a moment's notice. A playground for the reckless. A hunting ground for the desperate or those looking to come up.

In the heart of the city, somewhere between the rows of corner stores and section-eight apartments, a street takeover was in full effect. Low riders were parked alongside the pavement, blocking oncoming traffic. Cars snaked around each other, tires screeching as they carved tight circles into the pavement. Smoke rose over the block, the scent of burnt rubber intermingling with gasoline. This was Friday night in the hood.

Leaning against a jet-black Cadillac, a group of teens passed around a blunt, their laughter sharp, reckless. Liquor bottles clinked as hands exchanged Hennessy as they passed around mix tapes from the latest vocals on the street.

Julian Taylor sat at the center of it all — young, Black, and confident. He was seventeen and sharp-eyed, a quiet storm brewing beneath a fresh fade. He didn't smoke much, didn't drink to get sloppy. He kept his mind sharp, always calculating, always planning. The world wasn't kind to kids like him, so he stayed two steps ahead. He moved through the crowd like a lion, as he passed a blunt to his brother.

Cameron was a different beast. sixteen and restless, with a permanent glint in his eye that made people believe he always had a plan. He had a habit of jumping headfirst into the kind of shit that made Julian lose sleep. But they were all they had. Foster care had tried to separate them, the system had tried to break them, but they made a promise a long time ago — we ride together, we die together.

Cameron took a long pull from the blunt, passing it to Angel, the oldest of their crew. Eighteen, fresh out of high school with no plans for anything that didn't make fast cash. His uncle's body shop kept him busy during the day, flipping stolen whips, fixing up street racers. By night, he gambled his life and his ride on the pavement. Julian, Cameron and Angel would split the profits; often spent just as fast as it came, on weed or other pleasures.

It was the only thing that could drown out their troubles on the streets. Just a puff could melt your shoulders and make the world softer around you, more euphoric. Laughter came easier, unforced. Unlike the harsh burn of Hennessy or spirits, a fat blunt was smoother. And in this game, it was everything to the Taylor brothers. That was their hustle. Fast cars. High stakes. Money that burned holes in their pockets before the night was even over.

Julian and Cameron dap up Angel.

"What's good, homie?" Angel smirked, already knowing.

"Sup ese." Julian smiled. "Ain't got to remind you what day it is."

"Payday," Angel said, pretending to check the date on his pager. A joker, he always kept Julian from getting too serious. "And the day of reckoning for those fools on 8th."

Cameron whooped, hyped off the energy. The night was just getting started. And if Julian had his way, by sunrise, everything would change. For better. Or for worse.

Angel crouched beside the lowered Dodge Challenger, headphones of a Walkman over his ears, as his fingers tracing the grooves of the tires like a sculptor sizing up his masterpiece. He knew speed — breathed it, lived for it. But he also speed could get you killed just as fast as it could get you rich.

Julian popped the hood, his sharp eyes sweeping over the engine. Then he saw them. Twin NOS canisters strapped near the manifold, glinting under the streetlights like a loaded clip. His stomach tightened.

"The hell is this," Julian asked. He spoke low; his voice edged with suspicion.

Cameron strolled up beside him, all reckless energy and misplaced confidence.

"Straight shot to two grand," he said, nodding toward Angel. "No way we running on some wack-ass engine, not tonight."

Julian exhaled through his nose; jaw tight. "This ain't the boost I asked for."

"But it's the boost you need," Cameron countered. "Am I right?"

"Rarely," Julian said, voice flat. "Why you always do this? You know nitrous is a gamble. It don't give the turbo time to spool. You hit that shit too soon, the engine's gonna blow."

Julian had always told Cameron they should be using turbo instead of NOS to fuel their car. NOS was dangerous, cheap, and dirty — for starters. What was the point of being in the lead if the stakes were your life?

Cameron groaned, rolling his eyes. "You still on that? Stop trippin', man — last time was a fluke. Angel wasn't used to handling the Charger, that's all."

Julian didn't have to dig deep to remember that night in Long Beach. The way Angel slammed the throttle too hard, too fast. The Mustang they were up against had torn ahead, but then their own engine choked, wheels locked up, and all that power went sideways. By the time they got their shit together, they were looking at a totaled front end and a repair bill that damn near bled them dry. Angel had spent the last hundred hours trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together.

Angel lifted his hands, stepping in before things got hot.

"All good, compadre. Charger can take it. Look — " He pointed to a fresh cylinder installed near the intake. "Just a little extra juice. Trust me, we straight."

Julian considers the extra cylinder for a moment. It gleams in the evening light like a brick of silver.

"Just remember what we racing for," Julian said exasperated, finally giving in. "I don't want to see a scratch on this damn thing."

Angel grinned, clapping Cameron's palm in a quick dap. The energy between them was contagious, and despite himself, Julian felt it creeping in as he slid into the backseat.

That was when Julian saw it. A shadow slipped into view from the edge of the lot.

A murdered-out Chevy Impala, slow rolling, tinted windows swallowing the driver whole. Something about the way it appeared — too quiet, too perfect — sent an ice-cold whisper down Julian's spine.

He squinted, trying to make out who was inside. But before the thought could settle, Angel twisted the key, the Charger growling to life like a caged animal, drowning out the warning bells clanging in Julian's head and they peeled off into the night.

Cameron slid into the passenger seat, flicking the dial to POWER 106. The speakers cracked, then blasted N.W.A. — Eazy-E's voice snarling over the bass. Angel, already gripping the wheel, tapped his fingers against the leather, as he adjusted the gears.

The anticipation was thick in the air Angel revved up the engine, peeling out of the garage and toward the starting line. The all-encompassing vibrations of the new four-cylinder engine racked through their bodies.

Outside, the scene was thick with smoke, sweat, and money. Girls in hoop earrings and high heels leaned against candy-painted lowriders, their laughter drowned by the growl of engines ready to pounce. Hood-rich hustlers counted stacks, side-bets flying. Everybody was here for the show — and the stakes were high. Spectators cheered as Angel expertly maneuvered the car to the top of the block, engine humming against the rhythm of the bass.

Julian and Cameron take in the girl at the starting line. Decked out in a combo of LA streetwear and designer apparel. Probably some model looking for her next come- up. She scanned the drivers, lingering a little too long on Angel.

Angel took in her Apple Bottom jeans, revving his engine.

"Eyes on the prize ese," Cameron nudged him. "Plenty of time for fun at the after party."

"And after we get this money," Julian reminded them. "Get ready boys, this about to be our biggest come up."

Angel takes his place, engine idling as he marks a clear path toward the highway. The racetrack girl raises a bandana.

"Drivers, on your mark — "

Angel's, eyes cutting toward the open road.

"Get set — "

Before the bandana even hit the ground, the street exploded with sound.

Tires SCREAMED against the asphalt as the racers launched forward, engines ROARING like wild animals unleashed. Julian exhaled, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. He didn't like it. But the race was on, and there was no turning back now.

Angel punched the gas, the Charger growling like a caged beast as it lunged forward. Tires screeched, rubber burned, and the night air filled with the scent of gasoline and adrenaline. The crowd roared; their cheers lost beneath the thunder of engines tearing through the streets. Neon lights flashed against their faces, fractured by speed, painting them in blues, reds, and yellows as they carved through the city like a blade.

The NOS kicked in, slamming them back into their seats. Julian clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the wheel, fingers twitching against the door handle. No matter how many times they ran this route, his nerves never settled.

"Slow on the corner!" Julian shouted from the backseat.

Cameron, wired on adrenaline, slammed his fist against the dash. "Hell nah! Punch that shit!"

Angel gripped the wheel tight, shifting gears with a precision, barely tapping the brakes. His focus razor-sharp as she ignored the other drivers beside him. The Charger fishtailed, but he pulled it back, threading the needle between two cars just inches from trading paint. To the Taylor brothers, this wasn't just a street race — it was the Kentucky Derby, and Angel was their jockey.

Cameron whooped from the backseat, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"We flying, baby!"

Julian clenched his jaw, gripping the door handle.

"I told you to keep it easy," Julian said through his teeth.

Angel barely acknowledged him, shifting gears.

"Relax, man. I got this," Angel said, concentrating.

Ahead, two cars jockeyed for position, one a sleek midnight-blue Nissan, the other a fire-red Mustang. Angel saw his opening and gunned it, weaving between them just as the road tightened into a narrow stretch under an overpass.

Julian glanced at the mirror. A blacked-out Chevy Impala lurked behind them; its headlights cold, unwavering. Not another racer. A shadow. A hunter. His gut tightened. Something wasn't right.

"See that?" Julian asked, voice low.

"Yeah," Cameron muttered, concerned. "That bitch is ridin' tight."

"Gun it, Angel. Lose 'em."

Angel didn't need telling twice. He dropped gears, the Charger howling as it tore down the street, skimming the edge of control. The finish line was close, the crowd a blur in the distance — but Julian wasn't looking at that anymore. His eyes were on the Impala, its speed picking up, closing the gap.

"Hard right," Julian barked. "Catch the 405!"

Angel barely flinched as he overtook two low riders, blasting through a stop sign without so much as a glance. His engine sent sparks flying from the exhaust pipe.

"Shit," Angel muttered.

He yanked the wheel, sending the car into a controlled drift as they shot toward the freeway. The onramp loomed ahead, the race nearly theirs — until Julian's head snapped to the rearview mirror. But the Impala followed, like a ghost in the night stalking its prey.

Cameron clocks it.

"Watch out!"

Without warning, the Impala cut hard, slamming into their rear bumper. The Charger lurched sideways, tires screaming, metal groaning. Cameron's head bounced off the window.

The Impala wasn't done. It swerved again; this time harder. The Charger spun — 360 degrees — skidding across the asphalt before finally catching traction. They're about to crash.

SCREEEECH.

Angel fought the wheel, heart jackhammering, as he regains control just inches from the guardrail.

"The hell was that," Julian snapped, heart racing.

Pissed off, Angel shoved his door open, feet hitting pavement hard. Cameron was right behind him, fists clenched, blood trickling down his temple.

"You outta your goddamn mind!" Angel shouted.

"The hell you on the road for?" Cameron added, his voice tight with anger.

The Impala had come out of nowhere, headlights flashing like a predator's eyes. As its passenger door creaked open a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out, slow and deliberate. Hoodie up, jeans sagged over heavy boots. A thick chain glinted against his chest, catching the glow of a nearby streetlamp. His face was unreadable, but Cameron stiffened — recognition flashing across his eyes.

The thug's presence enough to send a cold weight sinking into Cameron's gut. A clear recognition in his eyes.

"Angel…" Julian muttered, barely above a whisper. "We need to bounce."

Angel's instinct shifting from fight to survival. "Calmate, big homie, we were just racin' — "

The thug smiled. A deadly grimace without warmth. He shut the car door behind him, every step forward carrying weight, tension thick enough to suffocate.

"Got a message for you," the thug said, voice like gravel.

The thug reached into the Impala, pulling a submachine gun from the passenger seat.

Time slowed.

Angel and Cameron hit the ground. Julian barely had time to duck behind the Charger's door before —

Gunfire ripped through the night, the echoes bouncing off concrete, tearing through metal, shattering glass.

"GO! GO! GO!" Cameron yelled, scrambling back toward the car.

Angel dived in after him. Julian didn't wait — he stomped the gas. The Charger roared in defiance, tires screaming as they fishtailed down a side street, cutting the lights. Bullets whizzed past, snapping against pavement, sparking off the frame. Julian white-knuckling the wheel as they disappeared into the dark veins of Long Beach.

A few miles from the ambush, they sat in the idling car, the night pressing in, thick with tension. The streetlights cast jagged shadows across their faces. The acrid stink of burnt rubber and gunpowder still clung to Julian's clothes, mixing with the sweat on his skin.

His eyes snapped to the rearview mirror — Cameron slumped in the backseat, breathing shallow, his skin pale under the flickering neon haze of a liquor store sign. A muscle ticked in Julian's jaw as he turned in his seat.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was about," he started. His voice was low, controlled, but sharp enough to cut.

Cameron ran a hand over his face, trying to pull himself together. His hands shook against the dashboard, there was sweat on his brow.

"Probably just some fool playing gangster on the east side — "

"Bullshit." Julian's voice was low, sharp. "You know that fool, or what?"

A tense silence stretched between them. Cameron hesitated, but before he could answer, Angel spoke up.

"Yo, you ain't told him?"

Cameron's head snapped up; his glare razor-sharp. A silent warning. Too late. Julian had already caught the exchange and the weight in his chest sank deeper. This wasn't some random drive-by. Some low-level thug looking for trouble. It was something much deeper and the thought of Cameron keeping it from him ate away at his nerves.

"Told me what?"

Julian's voice was sharp, edgy, daring Cameron to say the wrong thing.

Cameron shifted in his seat, guilt. He glanced out the window for a moment before finally answering.

"Needed some extra cash. Big Smoke's got a few stacks. Thought I'd make some dough on the side — "

"The fuck you messing with Smoke for?" Julian cut him off, his tone slicing through the stale air in the car. "I know you ain't stupid — "

"It's just a few runs." Cameron shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

Julian barked out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"Nah. See, 'cause if my brother needed scrilla that bad, he'd come to me first," Julian said, waiting. "Right?"

Silence.

Cameron kept his eyes forward, his lips pressed tight. He didn't have to answer — Julian already knew the truth.

"So that bullet was meant for you," Julian heaved.

From the backseat, Angel shifted uncomfortably.

"Julian –"

Julian twisted in his seat, his stare pinning him in place.

"You mixed up in this shit too?"

Angel held up his hands.

"I ain't stupid enough to fuck with Smoke. But — "

"Get out the car," Julian said, his voice ice cold.

"What?" Angel blinked.

"Get out." Julian's voice left no room for argument. "You good to walk home from here. I need to rap with Cam for a minute."

Angel hesitated, glanced at Cameron, then exhaled through his nose. He didn't argue. Just pushed open the door and stepped out onto the curb, the night swallowing him whole.

Julian let the silence sit heavy between them before finally speaking, his voice lower now, but somehow more dangerous. "Tell me everything. Right now."

Cameron exhaled, slow.

"You ain't gonna like it," he stated.

The moon was high above the clouds the time Julian and Cameron find themselves sitting outside Big Smoke's trap house. The bass from inside vibrated through the ground, the muffled hum of conversation spilling out onto the street. Julian's gaze flicked toward the murdered-out Chevy Impala parked around the corner. His gut was in knots. He knew that nothing about this was good.

They were in Eastside, Long Beach, a neighborhood where, in the blink of an eye, anything could change. Outside, a kickback was in full swing.

Julian shot Cameron a look of caution.

"I better not catch you running your mouth," he warned q, his voice just loud enough for Cameron to hear over the rumbling bass from the street outside.

Inside Big Smoke's trap house, the basement was thick with the scent of weed and sweat. The air hung heavy, swirling under the flickering glow of fluorescent lights. Baggy jeans sagged over designer sneakers, gold chains reflected the dim light, and the unmistakable sounds of BET After Dark pulsed from the television speakers. The MC spun Tupac's California Love, a fitting anthem for the party.

Julian kept his head on a swivel, noting every exit, every face. Cameron, on the other hand, moved like he belonged. A few of Smoke's runners dapped him up, their nods of recognition sharp as razors. Julian's stomach turned.

They found Big Smoke near the back, leaning over a pool table. He was a bear of a man — belly thick, face set in the hard lines of a life lived on the streets. A blunt dangled from his lips, the ember pulsing as he inhaled deep, sending a trail of smoke curling toward the ceiling. A few women, barely dressed, stood around him, laughing, sipping cheap liquor, their eyes glazed with something stronger.

Big Smoke lined up a shot, barely looking up as Julian and Cameron approached. With a smooth stroke, the cue ball cracked against the others, scattering them across the green felt.

"See you got my message." Big Smoke smirked, exhaling smoke through his nose.

"Loud and clear," Julian said, refusing to back down.

Smoke finally glanced up, his eyes slow and assessing. Cameron shifted beside him, the nerves eating at him, but Julian stood still. He'd been in rooms like this before. Knew how this dance worked. Big smoke was known for his intimidation tactics.

Cameron, on the other hand, shifted nervously beside him, ready to make a run for it if things went south.

Big Smoke looked down at them from the end of his pool cue.

"What? Little homie can't speak for himself?"

"Nah, because every time my brother does, it seems like something stupid comes out," Julian said, annoyed.

A slow grin spread across Big Smoke's face, intrigued. "Take it you don't like my terms," he said.

He leaned against the table, tapping the ash from his cigarette. Julian's expression hardened. Street life was chess — nothing more. If you moved scared, you lost. If you moved too quick, you lost. He'd learned that young, scraping through a foster system.

"Just don't like people trying to gun us down on the freeway," said Julian.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," Big Smoke countered.

Rook to E5. The game had just begun.

A long silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Julian's mind ran through the angles, every move that could be made.

He watched as Smoke lined up another shot, the cue sliding effortlessly between his fingers. The clink of billiard balls echoed, filling the space between words.

"We ain't much for games, unless we betting," he told to Big Smoke, his voice steady. "Which is exactly why Cam ain't gonna work for you no more."

"That so," Big Smoke said, deadly quiet.

Cameron quickly intervened, shaking his head. "Hold up, I didn't say all that."

Julian caught Cameron's eye, warning him to stay quiet. "I know we both businessmen," Julian began, ignoring him, his voice carrying an edge of forced civility. "We gotta do what we gotta do. But you get in these kids' heads, promising them some big come-up. Half the time, they end up locked up — or dead. But my brother and I? We ain't about that life."

Big Smoke cracked the cue ball, the break scattering solids and stripes across the table. He straightened, turning his full attention to Julian now, sizing him up.

"That so," Big Smoke said, his voice deadly quiet. "No problem. Like you said, we both businessmen and it just so happens I'm feeling generous today. So how about you run me back that money, and we call it even?"

Julian narrowed his eyes. "You took a loan?"

Big Smoke laughed, directing the pool cue on Cameron.

"What, you thought that bling on his neck was a gift? Them sneakers? That talk about 'investments' and 'big come-ups'? Nah, scrub got ambitious. And I gave him a start-up. Twenty-five racks."

Big Smoke exhaled smoke through his nose, savoring every word.

Julian's stomach dropped. He turned to Cameron, who was suddenly looking real small next to the weight of his own mistakes.

"We don't have that kind of cash just lying around," Julian managed to choke.

Big Smoke's smirk widened, but his eyes stayed cold. "Then I suggest you find it," he said, slipping the cue into the rack.

The room felt colder despite the heat pressing in from all sides. Smoke's crew watched, silent and still, waiting to see what Julian would do.

Julian didn't flinch. Didn't blink. But inside, his mind was already moving, already calculating.

Julian's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, the weight of their predicament pressing against his chest like a loaded gun.

The streets of Long Beach stretched out ahead, bathed in flickering neon and the cold glow of streetlights. Julian is sat at a red light. Beside him, Cameron sat stiffly, his face twisted with guilt. He didn't have to say anything — Julian already knew.

"You fucked up," Julian muttered, voice low and even, but charged with something dangerous. "You copped a twenty-five grand loan from the biggest dope dealers in Long Beach and thought you wouldn't have to pay interest? No wonder Big Smoke's gunning for you."

"I was going to return it when I got it back," Cameron said. "Shit just got messed up."

"Nah," Julian said, jaw tightening. "We gonna return this shit right now."

A pause. Cameron stared straight ahead, his throat working as he struggled to find the words.

"I can't," he finally admitted. "It's gone."

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.

"How long?" Julian asked, his voice lower now, more controlled.

Cameron swallowed hard. "Two months."

Julian's grip on the wheel tightened. He wanted to hit something. Wanted to grab his little brother and shake some goddamn sense into him. Instead, he let out a slow, measured breath.

"What we're you thinking," Julian growled.

"About keeping a roof over our heads," Cameron started. "In a few weeks you're turning eighteen. What the hell you think was gonna happen when we aged out of the system?"

"That's was my job to figure out," Julian said desperately. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around –"

"I had a plan — "

"And it got messed up!" Julian cut in. "So why don't you can let me worry about those from now on. Starting with this bullshit you've gotten us into with Big Smoke."

Before Julian could press further, an LA Sheriff's cruiser rolls up beside them, its presence sudden and suffocating. Julian tensed, his hand hovering near the gear shift. Inside the squad car, two deputies sat stone-faced, their eyes fixed on the Charger.

Julian kept his hands on the wheel. Beside him, Cameron barely breathed.

They tried to play it cool, but the silence between them was deafening. The traffic light lingered on red, stretching the moment unbearably.

The deputies lingered. One of them, an older guy with a bulldog face, squinted at the Charger's gas tank — a bullet hole, small but telling. The radio in their cruiser crackled to life. One cop reached for it, speaking in low tones.

Finally, the light flickers from red to green. Julian eased onto the gas, slow and steady, but the sharp WHOOP of a siren split the night. The cruiser's lights flared.

"Shit," Julian muttered.

He digs his head into the back of the seat, frustrated and desperate.

The cruiser's red and blue lights flooded the street behind them, signaling them to pull over. With no other choice, Julian eased the Charger to the curb. The engine hummed low, the smell of asphalt and gasoline thick in the air.

There's a sharp rap on the driver's side window. Deputy Hendley, a man well into his fifties with a gaze that tells Julian and Cameron they're not getting out of this, peered inside.

Julian rolled down the window, keeping his expression neutral.

"What seems to be the problem, deputy?"

Hendley tilts his head, his face unreadable.

"Just need to see some ID"

Julian nods, compliant, as he reaches for his wallet. He quickly hands over the license. "Why? We do something wrong?"

Hendley barely glances at the ID before handing it back with a polite smirk. Julian could see the facade from a mile away.

"You know your license is about to expire?" Deputy Hendley asked.

Cameron, who had been silent until now, leaned slightly forward. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it.

"I think my brother asked you a question, sir," he said evenly.

Hendley's smirk fades. His eyes flickering between them. He takes his time before answering, feeling them out.

"We're looking for two individuals of your complexion," he said, slow and deliberate. "And you're out past curfew."

The weight of the deputy's words settled between them like a coiled wire, ready to snap.

"Where is it you're headed?" Deputy Hendley asked. Cameron noticed that he was resting a hand on his gun, safety off. He didn't dare move.

Julian tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his pulse quickening as he answered, his voice measured and tense. Deputy Hendley's partner looks inside the car, eyes sharp with suspicion.

"Home," Julian said curtly, hesitating for a moment, before adding, "Our foster home, sir."

"We'll get you back on your way, just as soon as we take a look inside your vehicle," Deputy Hendley offered.

Julian took a steadying breath, weighing his words carefully.

"Respectfully, I'll decline," he said carefully. "If we're not under arrest, we'd like to get going."

Hendley tilted his head slightly, considering Julian's words.

"Shouldn't be a problem if you've got nothing to hide."

Suddenly, a police canine, vicious and dripping of saliva, slams itself across the passenger side window. Cameron jumps, scooting closer to Julian.

With a subtle motion, Hendley signaled to another deputy, who retrieved a canine from the cruiser. Julian's eyes Cameron's — a silent warning. They hadn't done anything wrong. But they knew that didn't always matter.

The canine takes a moment to sniff around, before its body stiffens. Then, it lets out a ferocious bark, signaling to the deputies to move in.

Deputy Hendley opens the trunk, searching through its contents with a gloved hand.

"I'm going to need you both to step out of the vehicle," he says tensely, signaling to his partner.

Before Julian and Cameron know it, they found themselves on the sidewalk, the pavement rough beneath them, small pebbles pressing into their palms. It was uncomfortable and terrifying as the canine tore through the rest of the car. Not just items, but their home. A majority of what they owned jumping from different foster homes was in that car and right now, it was at the mercy of the LA Sheriff Department.

Cameron tries to stop himself from shaking. Despite his anger, Julian reached out a hand to comfort him.

"Keep your hands where we can see them," Deputy Hendley commanded.

Julian placed his hands back on the ground, trying to count down the seconds until they were free to go.

Then, out of the corner of their eyes, they noticed a black Chevy Impala creeping by. The passenger-side window slid down, revealing a familiar face.

Big Smoke.

A smirk played on his lips as he lifted his hand, shaping his fingers into a gun. He aimed it at them, his thumb flicking down like the hammer of a pistol. His lips moved, silent but unmistakable.

The Impala rolled on, disappearing into the night, but the threat lingered like the last wisps of smoke in the air. Julian's stomach tightened. He knew the streets were watching and whatever this night had started, it was far from over.

CHAPTER TWO

Walter Brooks had seen better days. Everything about his demeanor had said this as he stepped down from his horse outside Malibu Black's Casino a few miles outside of Lexington Kentucky. His spurs jingled softly as he hitched the reins to a post. His knuckles, gnarled from decades of rough living, tightened momentarily before he turned and walked inside.

His first stop was the ATM and then, as always, the poker table. If you were looking for Walter Brooks, you could always find him hunched over the cards, in the high limit room, the amber glow of his whiskey neat catching the dim casino light. Tonight, his luck had run dry long before the cards turned against him, but he wasn't ready to give up just yet. He glanced at his pocket deuces — nothing to save him now. Every instinct screamed at him to fold, but desperation pushed him forward. He doubled down.

The dealer's expression barely flickered as Walter's last chance slipped away.

"Better luck next time," the dealer said, raking in the last of Walter's money.

Bitter, Walter knocked back the rest of his drink and shoved himself upright. As he stepped outside, the night air bit at his flushed skin.

But something was wrong. His horse — gone. The reins that had been taut around the post now hung slack. His stomach turned to lead.

His boots crunched against the gravel as he made his way toward the parking lot, scanning for any sign of movement. But before he could take another step, his vision blurred. The world tilted, the asphalt rose up to meet him, and then — black.

A sharp intake of breath yanked him back to consciousness. His face was pressed against dirt, his jacket heavy with dust. Walter groaned, wiping at the dampness on his cheek, disoriented. This wasn't the casino. He lifted his head and squinted through the darkness — it was Churchill Downs. The racetrack.

Suddenly, at a distance came the rev of an engine. Headlights flared, illuminating him in their harsh glow. A pickup truck. Walter stumbled to his feet, waving his arms, but the vehicle only roared away, its taillights fading into the night.

Then, the truck came at him like a bull in the night, terrible and ferocious. Its engine roared as it made a beeline straight for him.

Walter used all his remaining energy to push himself off the ground. But the truck followed, quickly gaining traction. Walter, quickly turned a corner, finding shelter between the hay bales used to feed the horses. He was ducked between a pillar as he watched the truck hunt him from the shadows. Finally, the driver gave up, burning rubber and dirt out the gate.

Panic clawed at his chest as he turned. His eyes landed on a payphone at the edge of the track. Shaking fingers dug into his pocket, coming up with a few quarters. He shoved them into the slot, lifting the receiver with a trembling hand. There was only one number burned into his memory.

He pressed the buttons, listened to the ringing, and waited.

Reign Brooks lay in bed, her body curled beneath a set of crisp silk sheets. LA's 110 freeway playing like a soundscape in the background as the city lights hit her face. Her bedroom was pristine. In fact, most of her house felt like a high-end hotel than an actual home. As a Black woman who had worked for everything, she had from the ground up, she had learned to appreciate the finer things in life. It meant that each room was carefully curated to exude financial independence, but sometimes that also meant forgoing warmth.

The phone rang. Loud, shrill, cutting through the silence like a blade. She let it ring, her gaze flicking to the glowing screen without moving. The caller ID read: Walter Brooks.

A name she hadn't seen in a decade. A name that tightened her chest like a vice. It was the name of her father.

Ten years of silence, broken now by the blinking red light of a voicemail.

Reign closed her eyes, willing herself back to sleep, but his voice carried through the room, gravelly and hesitant.

"Reign. It's Pop," Walter began, clearing his throat. His voice was hesitant, timid. Nothing like Reign had remembered. "I know there's never really a good time to reach out after so many years, but the truth is, your old man could really use your help. I can't get into it over the phone — it's complicated. But you know I wouldn't ask unless I was desperate. I think it'd just be easier to show you… here, in Kentucky. Would you please come home?"

She waited for more, some final plea, some reason to care. But the message ended, leaving only the sound of her own breath in the stillness of the room.

Reign exhaled slowly. She could already feel the ghosts creeping in, the memories clawing at her from the past. But what would going back do? Drag up old wounds? Demand answers she wasn't sure she wanted anymore?

For a moment, she considered picking up the phone, maybe calling him back. But what would demanding answers after so long really do?

Instead, she reached over, unplugged the phone, and rolled back onto her side. She soon felt herself drifting again, albeit restless. As she stared into the darkness and slipped further out of reach, she hoped that when she woke up in the morning, she'd find out it was all just a bad dream.

By morning, the city was alight with energy and movement. Downtown, expectedly, bustling with people and cars making their way into work. Reign arrived promptly at court, with no time to snag her usual morning cup of coffee. As she made her way through the security checkpoint, the metal detector beeping dully as she passed.

Lawyers busily checked their dockets, calling their clients on payphones. Pagers vibrated, calling them to courtrooms where the clients awaited trial. Reign was among them, thumbing through the docket, her eyes scanning the list of cases she was scheduled for, when she caught two familiar names — Julian and Cameron Taylor.

She stopped cold.

A chill crawled up her spine, but she didn't have time to sit with it. A light tap on her shoulder snapped her back to the moment.

"Rough night?"

The voice jolted her back to the present. Kelli, the court stenographer, handed her a steaming cup of coffee, her observant gaze scanning Reign's tired face.

"You're a lifesaver Kelli." Reign sighed, gratefully accepting the caffeine. "You try getting hounded by an unwanted man while trying to sleep."

Kelli's eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Some people pay for that kind of attention. Did he at least call in and request your favorite song on the radio?"

"Is there one called 'Missing in Action for Ten Years," Reign huffed.

"They always come back, don't they," Kelli mused. The unspoken history of troubled men from the past, well understood, but meaning different things for both of them. "So, where we headed?

"A25," Reign clipped. "Home check with Judge Marvis."

Kelli rolled her eyes.

"That asshole? Glad I got you a double shot."

"These clients have had some trouble the last few weeks," Reign said, grateful for the caffeine. "Julian and Cameron Taylor. They're just shy of aging out, but knowing Marvis, he'll want to make an example of them."

Kelli shook her head, racking her brain.

"It's got to be nerves. How would you feel constantly moving to a new place?"

Before Reign could answer, her pager buzzed — Walter, again. She clenched her jaw and pressed a finger against the device, silencing it. He could wait. Right now, she needed to focus on the Taylor case.

Kelli shot her a knowing look. "You know you're going to have to deal with him at some point."

Reign exhaled, tapping the case file with her fingers. "True. But not today."

Reign took a sip of the coffee, the bitterness grounding her. But as she headed toward the courtroom, the unease remained, lingering just beneath her skin. She had a feeling today would be one of those days — the kind where the past refused to stay buried.

The hallway outside the courthouse was cold and sterile, vacant payphones, the kind of place where lives were decided with the stroke of a pen. Julian and Cameron sat stiffly behind Reign, their court-appointed attorney, as the rhythmic tapping of a keyboard filled the tense silence.

Judge Marvis, a man well into his seventies with a reputation for strict adherence to protocol, skimmed over their progress report while Deputy Hendley spoke at the podium. His tone was clipped and authoritative, void of all human warmth.

"After pulling over Mr. Taylor's vehicle past curfew, our canine unit signaled near the trunk," Deputy Hendley stated. "We discovered stolen car parts, along with approximately one gram of weed — "

Reign, never one to let an opportunity pass, interjected, "You mean a fucking blunt? Let's not get dramatic."

Judge Marvis' head snapped up, stern. "I'll caution you to remain quiet while Deputy Hendley finishes his testimony, Mrs. Brooks."

"Thank you, your honor," Deputy Hendley started. "At the end of the day, we're just trying to do our job. But it's common for us to get pushback from people in that area — "

"Bullshit," Cameron quickly jumped in. "My brother and I both cooperated — "

"Control your client, Ms. Brooks," Judge Marvis warned.

Reign pursed her lips, motioning Cameron to quiet down, much to the glee of Deputy Hendley.

"Need I remind you, this isn't a criminal case, Your Honor," she continued. "We're here to discuss the merit of the Taylor brothers' transition."

"Sustained," Judge Marvis replied, slightly annoyed. "However, I have asked Deputy Hendley to attend today to provide some insight into your client's conditions."

"Conditions?" Reign echoed, nostrils flaring. "My clients were illegally stopped, and your deputy just happened to 'discover' some junkyard scraps and a roach? Which, by the way, isn't even a misdemeanor anymore. More like a hundred-dollar fine."

Deputy Hendley bristled, his voice growing defensive.

"We stopped your clients because they fit a description — "

"Sounds like you stopped them because they were Black." Reign scoffed. I mean, let's just call it what it is."

"Typical, pulling the race card — "

Judge Marvis brought down his gavel, signaling the end of the conversation.

"I'll have order in my courtroom," the judge snapped. "As Deputy Hendley said, complexion had nothing to do with the Taylor brothers being pulled over. As for the discovery in their trunk, Ms. Brooks, it's true that a few stolen car parts might have turned out to be junk –"

"Did Deputy Hendley even file a report on that?" Reign interjected again; her tone edged with skepticism.

Judge Marvis ignored her. Instead, he looked at Deputy Hendley, who shrugged. Their shorthand was apparent.

" — And a gram of cannabis might not send your clients to prison. But they are treading dangerously close to a misdemeanor. Their recent behavior is enough to strongly reconsider what's in their best interest."

Reign sat up a little straighter, her voice unwavering.

"With all due respect, I am in charge of ensuring their rights and best interests are advocated for during court proceedings."

Judge Marvis fixed her with a pointed look, daring her to challenge him.

"Then you must be fully aware of their drug habit," he said snidely. "What's your plan? Rehab, perhaps?"

Laughter filled the courtroom, echoing off the wood-paneled walls. Judge Marvis's gaze remained firm, unimpressed by the spectacle before him. Julian and Cameron exchanged nervous glances, knowing that whatever happened next could change everything.

"I'd hardly consider it a drug habit," Reign argued. "Cannabis was decriminalized in ྇. Medical legalization is already being discussed in next year's legislation. By then, half the county's low offenders will be released. These young men are worth more in a classroom than sitting behind bars."

"Which is exactly where they're headed if they don't figure it out." He turned his attention to the Taylor brothers and settled on Cameron first. The judge folded his hands, his expression unreadable. "What exactly is your plan for the future, Mr. Taylor?"

With all eyes on him — just how he liked it — Cameron leaned into the microphone.

"I plan to start my own business, sir. Distribution and sales — "

"Jesus Christ," Julian groaned.

Judge Marvis's lip twitched in something close to amusement.

"Fitting, since the only class you two seem to excel in is economics," he remarked.

More laughter, this time from Hendley, who stood near the back, eating it up.

Reign stepped in quickly, her voice urgent. She knew if she lost the court, she'd lose the judge and she was already fighting an uphill battle.

"These boys have potential — "

"Everyone has potential," the judge countered. "I'm looking for measurable action."

"What about a new foster home that can help cultivate their interests? One away from a high-risk environment, like Long Beach," Reign suggested.

"Motion denied," Marvis said without hesitation. "Their behavior is a pattern, Ms. Brooks. I've seen them twice already. It's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt."

"What are their other options?" Reign asked through gritted teeth.

Judge Marvis exhaled, exasperated. He glanced down at his notes.

"It's clear to me that their influence on each other is the problem. Perhaps time apart will give them the resources and focus they need."

Julian stiffened.

"You want to separate us?"

"I'd like to advocate for Julian to be moved to a transitional housing program in Palmdale," the judge said, barely looking up.

Reign's voice sharpened. "These young men are just trying to survive, in a system that wasn't built for them. What they need isn't punishment, it's an opportunity. A chance to figure out life and find their own path — "

Judge Marvis raised a hand to silence her.

"Please do not conflate the word 'opportunity' with 'enable.'"

Reign's pager vibrates again, insistent and sharp against the quiet hum of the courtroom. Walter. Again.

She clenched her jaw and willed herself to ignore it. Instead, she pivoted her focus, gripping the edge of the table in front of her.

"What I'm asking for, your honor, is a protective custody order."

Judge Marvis peered over his glasses, his expression one of disbelief

"To be clear, Ms. Brooks, you're willing to take on the care of these young men until they age out or find a new home? You do understand what you're asking for?"

"Yes, sir." Reign nodded. "That is, if they're both willing."

Julian and Cameron exchanged a look. Their options were limited: face Big Smoke and risk being torn apart, or put their trust in a woman they had only met ten minutes ago.

Julian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Doesn't look like we have a choice," he said to Cameron under his breath.

"If it keeps us together," Julian relented, defeated.

Judge Marvis exhaled, ready to give up the fight. Reign's antics were no longer worth his time.

"As ridiculous as I find your request, Ms. Brooks, I'll grant you a six-month probationary period," Judge Marvis said, his voice hard. Then, he turned to Julian Cameron, looking them dead in the eye. "Both of you are on your second strike. Sad thing is, I always see the same type of people back in my court. So, take my advice while you can. In less than a year, you'll both be legal adults and we'll be having a different conversation and you'll be walking through a different set of doors. If I see a report like this again, they'll be looking at immediate separation — or jail time. Understood?"

"Understood," Cameron and Julian both said, relieved.

Reign began gathering her things, before the judge had a chance to change his mind.

"Thank you, Your Honor."

Judge Marvis lifted his gavel and slammed it against the podium. The sound echoed through the chamber. "Better your problem than the city of Long Beach," he scoffed. "I just hope you have a plan."

Reign's pager vibrates from the desk. Walter. Reign's mind raced, already calculating the next step. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze to Judge Marvis, her voice steady as she spoke.

"I do," Reign said, although she sounded unsure. "I'm taking them with me to Kentucky."

CHAPTER THREE

Reign gripped the wheel as the rental car rattled over the dirt road. Dust curled behind them like a restless ghost, swallowing the past they left in the city and choking the future waiting up ahead. The wooden sign reading "Brook's Ranch" loomed through the haze, its once-bold paint chipped and sun-bleached, like a relic of something long dead.

For Julian and Cameron, the flight to Kentucky had been their first time on a plane. Between the variety of cowboy hats and blue jeans, they'd stuck out like a sore thumb; Julian in his Jordans and Cameron in his headphones. Just two black boys headed to a sea of white.

Cameron could not help himself from laughing when the stewardess innocently asked him what part of Kentucky he was headed to and he honestly had no idea. Lexington had been the last city they'd thought of when heading to a new foster home.

Reign glanced at Julian and Cameron, both lost in their own worlds, their oversized headphones pulsing with bass heavy rhythm of N.W.A. They had barely spoken since they left the city. She sighed, shifting her grip before breaking the silence.

"I'm not going to sugarcoat things," she said. "I know this situation isn't ideal for anyone — "

"How long we gonna be here?" Cameron muttered; arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were fixed on the rolling fields encased by miles of fence posts.

Reign ignored the interruption and pressed on.

" — But this is the best I could do to keep you both together and out of trouble. You screw up, you're on strike three. You do anything here that could affect your case in LA and I can't protect you. Judge Marvis was serious when he said he'd be watching, so please stay the hell out of trouble."

Cameron let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Not much we can get into in the middle of nowhere," he said, resentful. "Trust me, we'll be fine."

"What my brother's trying to say is thank you, Ms. Brooks," Julian said pointedly, throwing Cameron a look.

Reign's fingers tightened on the wheel, the anxiety clawing at her. "I know this isn't ideal for anyone. But both of you are at a crossroads, and you need to start thinking about what's next. Your future."

Julian slumped further into his seat, his voice quieter this time. He was exhausted, like he'd already made peace with the worst possible outcome.

"What future?"

Before Reign could answer, something ahead caught her eye. She eased her foot off the gas as they approached the ranch's main gate.

A man stood near the fence post. His boots were scuffed with age, spurs glinting under the midday sun. It was her father, Walter Brooks.

The old man looked like he'd been carved out of the land itself — his skin deep with sun-worn lines, hands thick and calloused.

Walter didn't wave. Didn't smile. His weathered hands gripping the reins of a horse, which he tied to the fence post before making his way over.

As Reign rolled down the window, the scent of earth and sun-warmed leather drifted inside. To her, it was the scent of a long-forgotten home.

"Decade's a long time. You forgettin' you need a four-wheel drive out here?" Walter asked, his voice like gravel shifting under heavy boots.

Reign's stomach was in knots as she processed her surroundings. She took in the farmhouse in the distance. Her childhood home.

"Hello to you too, Pop," she said with a wry smile. "Guess I've got a lot to remember."

Walter tipped his cowboy hat to Julian and Cameron, flashing Reign a knowing wink.

Julian and Cameron exchanged a glance, sizing up the rugged man in front of them. Dressed in worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a button-down that had seen its fair share of dust, Walter looked every bit the rancher they had imagined — except that he was Black, just like them.

The contrast was striking from what Julian and Cameron were used to back in Long Beach. But it was also refreshing.

Julian and Cameron felt it. But Reign? She was unfazed. This was her home, whether she liked it or not. Decades had passed, but stepping onto this land felt like stepping into an old scar.

"Two for the price of one," Walter drawled, crossing his arms. "Who told you I needed extra ranch hands?"

Julian stepped forward first, offering his hand.

"Sup. I mean," Julian corrected. "I'm Ju. Nice to meet you, sir. And this is my brother –"

Julian trailed off as he noticed Cameron had already wandered away, taking in Walter's massive black horse tethered nearby.

Walter followed his gaze, his expression shifting from skepticism to something softer — intrigue, even.

Reign, however, hesitated. She knew that look on her father's face. He had a way of drawing people in, making them believe the world he lived in was the only one worth knowing.

"This here's Shadow," Walter started, patting the horse's muscular neck. "I'm sure he'd like to know your name too."

Cameron turned to Walter; a bit hesitant to introduce himself.

"Cam. Sorry, it's just — "

"Never been this close before?" Walter guessed.

"Not unless you count my polo shirt." Cameron smirked. Underneath it all, he was a bit embarrassed. It's not like he had never seen a ranch before. But it was true, as Walter said, that it was the first time he'd touched a creature like this. It's muscular neck, excreting sweat from the summer air, felt strange on his palms. There were no horses in the city and if there were, Cameron wouldn't have been around them.

Walter gave a knowing chuckle, glancing at Reign.

"Shadow's the real deal. Comes from a long line of studs," Walter said, half bragging.

"You mean he just out here macking on with all the female horses?" Cameron grinned.

"Horse has got more game than you, Cam," Julian ribbed.

At a distance, Reign attempted to pry her suitcase from the trunk. But Walter is in too deep, once he started talking horses — it was almost impossible to pry him away.

"When Lexington was built, the Brooks were the first and only black family to start a successful ranching business," he explained. "People would come from miles to have us get their horses ready for the track."

"Until my father squandered the family money on poker tables and strip clubs," she said, shaking her head. Her voice carried no bitterness — just a resigned acceptance of the past.

Julian and Cameron stood in the barn, busy unpacking what little they had brought with them to Lexington. A few pairs of shoes, some clothes and an old FM radio constantly turned to the dial of POWER 106. Julian had rigged to help broadcast the station. It was hazy, but better than nothing. It was the only connection they had to their home.

Out the window, Julian could see a vast stretch of land before them. Walter's horses grazed lazily in the field, their sleek coats catching the late morning sun. In the distance, the farmhouse and rental car were nothing more than tiny pinpricks against the rolling hills.

The contrast was jarring, a hard left from the streets of Long Beach. Out here, the air was different — cleaner, quieter. Too quiet. The land stretched for miles, swallowing them whole, nothing but the hum of cicadas and the slow rustle of wind through the grass.

Julian exhaled, his gaze sweeping across the endless expanse of green hills. Nothing about Kentucky reminded him of Los Angeles. No low riders, no beaches, and no Mexican restaurants.

Cameron reached into his pocket, pulling out a small joint.

"That's why I brought a piece of home with us." he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Cameron lit up, inhaling deeply before passing it to Julian, who took a long drag, holding it in for a beat before exhaling, visibly impressed. It was good shit.

Julian coughed, spewing up smoke. His eyes burned, letting out a stream of tears.

"The hell is this," he said, half choking. "You don't think Reign gonna smell that shit on our clothes?"

"Chillax." Cameron laughed. "You hittin' that shit too hard. This ain't called Cali Kush for nothing."

"What you know about Cali Kush?" Julian smirked. "Thought you was always on that cheap stuff."

"I was — until I got introduced to this fine beauty. But once you go Cali Kush, you can't go back." Julian hands the blunt back to Cameron who takes in the aroma and beauty.

"She's headstrong, so you need to take it real slow," Cameron said, nodding to the blunt. "Treat her right and she'll make you feel like a million bucks."

They stood there in contemplative silence, basking in the glow of the cannabis. The weight of the last forty-eight hours was finally settling over them.

While Julian had originally scoffed at Cameron's idea of taking a location usually meant for the horse breeders to stay overnight while birthing, he eventually found it to be quaint and peaceful. At the very least, it was a safe haven from the overbearing glances of Reign. True, she was doing them a favor but neither Cameron nor Julian completely trusted her. Where they were from, favors never came for free.

Cameron nodded out the window, looking at the grass.

"You hear that?" he asked Julian.

"Nothing," Julian said, raising a brow.

"Exactly." Cameron sighed. "No cop cars. No guns. No sirens."

"Think you gonna be able to sleep tonight?" Julian ribbed.

"I'm being for real. This ain't so bad." Cameron shrugged. "More than we had before. At least while we kickin' here, this our own little place."

"For now," Julian said. "Unless you count whatever's howling outside. Rather deal with those animals than the bullshit with Big Smoke back in LA." Julian said, pointedly.

"I still can't believe the bullshit you got us into. Thought you was smarter than that," Julian admitted, bitter. "But you got greedy and reckless."

"You the one that always said, 'stay two steps ahead.'" Cameron shrugged.

"That was supposed to be together. You really thought I ain't got you? We had a deal," Julian scoffed. "I turn eighteen, petition for custody. Get that nice crib we always talked about and kick it near Baldwin Hills — "

"Until Judge Fuck-face puts you in transitional housing and me in another home," Cameron cut in. "Stop dreaming, Julian. It happens to everyone we know in foster care."

"Yeah, well, that all goes to shit anyway if Big Smoke smokes us first." Julian's voice dropped, his grip tightening on the fence. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Cameron kept his eyes on the horses, fishing for the right words.

"The loan from Big Smoke? Wasn't like that."

Cameron took another slow pull, watching the horses move through the field. His voice was quieter now, almost distant.

"I was thinking about this."

Cameron held up the blunt, the smoke rising and twisting into the fading Kentucky sun. The golden light flickered against the horizon, stretching long shadows over the field where they stood. Julian exhaled sharply, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Cameron with something between disbelief and admiration.

"You took a loan from Big Smoke to buy weed?" Julian asked, his voice edged with equal parts irritation and disbelief.

Cameron smirked, rolling the blunt between his fingers.

"Growing it," he corrected. "This the new strain I've been working on."

Julian considered this for a moment. Then, eyes bloodshot and the euphoria of the weed finally hitting — let loose. He held back his laugh — more like the giggles hitting him. The insanity of it all — their situation, Cameron's choices, finally landing on him.

"I mean, it is good shit," Julian reasoned. "But c'mon, twenty-five grand?"

"You in space right now," Cameron said, exasperated.

"No really." Julian tried to contain himself. "You crazy for that."

A pause, then Cameron laughed too. Together, they find a moment of levity in their new little corner of the earth. They're nothing more but brothers, simply figuring out life together.

"We both know this is crazy as hell," Julian remarked, seriously.

Cameron took a slow drag, exhaling before he answered. "Think about it — the white man been profiting off of us selling weed for decades. They get rich, and what do black and browns get? Locked up. That's what's crazy as hell."

Julian takes this in. His wheels were turning, but he wasn't quite sold.

"Just because we know good weed don't mean we can grow this shit in Kentucky. This is a whole different ball game."

"Which is why I did my research." Cameron grinned. "The climate here is perfect for growing hemp. Thanks to the pH levels and calcium limestone in the dirt, things grow twice as fast. Some of the most fertile soil west of the Mississippi."

Julian raised an eyebrow.

"Wait, you for real, real. You want to grow Cali Kush in Kentucky soil?"

"Damn right. And selling it at a premium." Cameron nodded.

Julian took a slow breath, considering the weight of Cameron's words.

"Cut the growth time in half," Julian interjected. "Double the product. Double the cash. Roll it back to Big Smoke after we turn a profit. Get out of this entire mess,"

Cameron's gaze was steady. "I just think it's time we stop working for others and start betting on ourselves."

Julian rubbed his chin, running the potential scenario through his head.

"Aiiiight, you might be on to something."

Silence settled between them as they stared out the window and at the land, the ranch's soil beneath them rich with possibility.

Reign stepped into the farmhouse, the scent of aged wood and black coffee wrapping around her like an old, familiar embrace. The living room hadn't changed much — same plaid couch, same dust-covered bookshelves, same heavy silence thick with unspoken words. She let her gaze wander, the memories pressing in, sharp and unyielding.

Her momentary wonderings were interrupted by Walter, who came in from the kitchen doorway.

"Sorry to disturb you," he started. "Coffee?"

His voice rough, methodological. As if he were trying very hard not to let his emotions show.

"Does it include a double shot?" Reign joked, trying to break the tension.

Walter's lips twitched, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. Reign, unyielding, matched his energy. How did you start a conversation with someone you hadn't spoken to in over ten years?

"I know it's been a while," Walter started. "And these circumstances are less than ideal."

"A while is what happens when you're stuck in LA traffic," Reign interjected. She had no intention, nor the time, to tiptoe around her emotions. "It took you ten years to figure out how to pick up a phone. Now, you're suddenly desperate for my help?"

Walter exhaled, tense. Guilty as charged.

"I'm not asking you to hold my hand while we take a trip down memory lane."

"Then let's cut through the bullshit, Pop," Reign said. "Why'd you call me here?"

For the first time since she arrived, Reign noticed her father's unease. The way his fingers fidgeted at his sides, or his eyes darted to the windows, scanning the horizon like he expected something — or someone — to emerge. It wasn't like him. Walter Brooks was a man who stood his ground, who never flinched.

But now? Reign looked at her father and noticed a familiar ailment that seemed to plague his every move. She knew it, because it was something she'd seen in almost all of her clients.

Fear.

"I know I can be stubborn," he admitted, voice wavering. It was as if speaking the truth too loudly might summon the very thing he feared. "But this time, things are different."

"Different how?" Reign asked, concerned.

"I've made some mistakes and now I've got some very bad people after me."

Reign's breath hitched. She spoke low and hushed, as if preventing someone who might be listening from catching her words.

"What kind of people?"

Walter faltered, trying to find the correct words. His hesitation sent a chill down Reign's spine.

"I don't know, exactly," he admitted. "But I do know one thing — I won't risk losing you again."

Something in Reign softened, even if just a bit. She sighed and dropped onto the couch beside him, the old cushions sinking beneath her weight.

"You're not going to lose me," she assured. "At least, not yet. But I need to know what we're dealing with here."

Walter nodding.

"I don't know where to start."

She met his gaze, steady and unwavering. If there was anything Reign knew about her father, it was that there was no forcing him to talk. He'd open up in his own time.

"How about we start from the beginning," she said kindly. "When you're ready."

The morning crept in slow, the sun barely peeling over the trees, throwing long, cold shadows across the ranch. The air was thick with the smell of dirt, hay, and last night's sweat. A rooster cut through the silence, loud, jostling the cattle that shuffled through the ranch, restless. Chickens scratched at the earth, leaving behind warm eggs for this morning's breakfast.

Inside the barn, Julian and Cameron were knocked out on a pair of bunk beds near the back. Their stuff — shoes, headphones, a couple of crumpled bills — was stacked up neat in whatever space they could claim.

"Angel paged me," Cameron said. They'd woken up to good news that he had won a few dubs on a race the night before. The boys were happy to hear from Angel whenever they did. He was their only connection back at home and their bond was still holding strong.

It was just before six a.m. and the sound of POWER 106's morning radio show played across the static. Suddenly, the sound of Dr. Dre's latest hit was interrupted by breaking news.

"Tragedy in the music world tonight as rap icon Tupac Shakur has died at the age of 25, six days after being shot in a drive-by attack in Las Vegas — "

Julian jumped out off the top bunk, grabbing the radio. Cameron pulls it out of his hands. Barely awake, they both scrambled to set the radio down on a bale of hay as news continued.

"The influential rapper and actor was gunned down on September 7th while leaving a boxing match on the Las Vegas Strip and succumbed to his injuries today at University Medical Center."

Julian looked at Cameron, depressed.

"Even rappers getting blasted now." He scowled.

Just then, Walter entered, all business.

Julian groaned, blinking against the dim light creeping through the barn's wooden slats.

"Yo, can we…"

"You mean, whoa," Walter corrected, standing over him with an unyielding anticipation. Morning was obviously his time. "Up and at 'em, boys. We're going into town."

"For what?" Cameron started.

"Didn't think you were on vacation, did you?" Walter said, fixing his hat. "Judge ordered two hundred hours of community service. You want me to sign off on it, I'll need some help with the horses. Starting with the auction house."

Cameron hesitated for a moment, thinking fast.

"I think Reign said she needed me for something at the house today," he blurted, beating Julian to it.

Julian shot him a glare. His eyes said it all — bullshit.

"Great. She's in there fixing up the kitchen." Walter smiled.

Julian let out an exasperated sigh. But Walter was serious. As he turned toward the door, he gave Julian and Cameron a stern warning.

"No cable at the ranch, but we do got chickens and cows. And you know what that means? Morning starts before the sun rises."

With that, Walter strode out of the barn, leaving the two young men to their fate. Julian turned to Cameron and punched him in the arm.

"Just another reason to hate it here," Julian said, bitter.

"Come on, look at the flip side," Cameron said. "We getting our hours in, maybe figure out a way to make some cash on the side."

"What the heck you going to do here all day while I'm gone?" Julian asked.

Cameron wasn't paying attention. He was fixated on something near the corner of the barn that Julian couldn't quite make out.

"Got some stuff to handle back here. I got you next time," Cameron offered. "For real."

Julian huffed, "I've never even touched a horse." He pulled a pair of borrowed boots over his feet and a flannel.

Suddenly, Walter's voice rang out from the outside. He popped his head through the door, as if he'd been listening in the whole time.

"You can start with the reins!"

Julian groaned, throwing himself back against the bunk, contemplating whether jail might have been a better option after all.

As Julian stepped into the Lexington Auction House, he was immediately overwhelmed by the chaos. The air buzzed with voices — men in suits, faded jeans, and cowboy hats hurrying from one end to the other, leading horses through the crowded space. The scent of hay, mixing with the faintest hint of expensive cologne.

People stared at Julian as he walked by. Not only did he stand out in crisp jeans and spotless Air Force 1s — it was obvious he wasn't from around here. Walter, on the other hand, drew attention for different reasons — reasons Julian hadn't quite figured out yet.

"These white people act like they never seen anyone from the West Coast before," Julian said to Walter, annoyed.

"Trust me, they're looking at us for a whole different reason," Walter said. "You're competition. Just like everyone else here."

"Competition?"

"It's an auction and we all want the same thing. A winner."

"Ain't too hard to see who's ballin' over here," Julian said.

"You'd be surprised," Walter explained, pointing to a man across the track. "See him? Thousand-dollar suit. Probably has five k in his pocket. And him? Dirty blue jeans and work boots, but that watch is worth more than my car. Point is, you might walk in here thinking you know one thing. But the truth is, it's people like us that are the real threat. Dark horse types."

"Right," Julian said, surveying the scene. They had arrived at the stables, where over a dozen horses were stored away, awaiting their new homes. Their necks were bent, munching on oats or bales of hay.

"Like cowboy horses," Julian guessed.

"Not these horses," Walter said. "These horses are from the track."

Julian raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Like the race track? They don't look any different."

"Horses come in all shapes and sizes and are good at different things. Just like regular folks," Walter explained. "These ones are just too old to ride, or too young to race."

Julian looked around, confused.

"Why would anyone pay for a horse that can't do either?"

Walter contemplated Julian's question for a moment, before leaning on the thing he knew how to do best.

"You ever play poker, son?"

"I'm too good at it," Julian smirked. "Run odds like a race track."

"Then you know that sometimes you're just dealt a bad hand," Walter said. "Doesn't mean you're bad at the game. You play long enough, and your cards will be pulled."

Julian laughed, catching the metaphor. "Or you keep playing bad hands and eventually lose all your money."

"That's what keeps the game exciting." Walter smiled. "Sometimes all you need is a second chance and a better hand."

Something about that stuck with Julian. He let the words settle, as he watched the horses move through the auction house.

"I don't like playing on impossible odds," he admitted. "Never ends up well for anyone."

Walter stepped up, planting a heavy hand on Julian's shoulder.

"One bad race don't count you out. I should know." He chuckled. "But maybe if you start looking at everything that could go right, instead of what could go wrong… you might see your odds start to change."

Cameron stepped into the farmhouse kitchen. He'd only seen the inside of Walter's house the night he arrived. Now, in the daylight it looked quaint and comfortable. It had a lived-in appeal that showed it was well loved once, by a small family.

Cameron caught Reign crouching under the sink, a wrench in hand as she tightened a pipe. The faint sound of dripping water echoed through the room.

He cleared his throat, hoping not to startle her.

"Walter sent me," he said, leaning against the counter.

"Against your will?" Reign smirked without looking up. "Me too."

"Said you could use some help." Cameron chuckled, taking in her a monkey wrench, incorrect for the pipe. She wiped her hands on a nearby rag before quickly switching it out, embarrassed.

"I'll admit, this wasn't what I had in mind when my father said he needed my help," she muttered, twisting the wrench with some effort.

"All good," Cameron replied. "Still owe you for saving our asses in court."

Reign chose her words very carefully.

"Contrary to what my father believes, not everything has to be an even exchange."

As Reign worked, Cameron let his gaze wander around the kitchen. The walls were lined with photographs — snapshots of a past that seemed frozen in time. One thing stood out: none of them showed Reign as an adult.

"That why you two are beefing?" he asked, curiously.

Reign sighed, trying her best to give away as little information as possible.

"Things got complicated between us a long time ago," she explained. "We both made bad choices. I left when I was eighteen and never looked back."

Cameron sensed the weight behind her words, he nodded in understanding.

"On the down low, you're pops seems pretty cool," Cameron admitted. "Not everyone gets the chance for a redo with their pops. Hell some people don't even know their parents."

His fingers brushed against a framed portrait of a woman above the sink. She bore a striking resemblance to Reign. Noticing his curiosity, Reign stiffened and quickly turned her attention back to the pipe, quickly changing the subject.

"You don't have to stay out in the barn, you know," she told him. "We are civilized enough to have beds here."

Cameron laughed, this time, for real.

"Walter said something about giving us enough space to grow as men?"

"Like he'd know anything about that." Reign scoffed.

"It ain't scared of roughing it, if that's what you're asking," Cameron admitted. "Ju and I have roughed it all our life."

Something in Reign shifted at his words. She glanced toward the window, her expression distant.

"I used to love it out there too," she said, nodding toward the barn. "Although, Pop would never let me stay the night. Too many wolves."

Cameron straightened; eyes wide.

"Ya'll got wolves out here?"

Reign laughed, taking in his reaction.

"Don't worry. They don't come close to the barn," Reign assured. "I'd stay just long enough to watch the stars come out. It's nothing like LA — you can see the entire Milky Way out here. Then Pop would whistle at me to come in for supper. I always pretended to be annoyed, but he actually cooks pretty well."

"Rather stay out there than in the house." Cameron sighed. He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Reign's eyeline.

She studied him for a moment before speaking. She could tell it was a sore topic.

"I know things are tough right now. I can't say I've ever been in your shoes. But from someone who understands what it's like to leave your home and never come back, just know — if you ever need to talk…"

Cameron nodded curtly, holding out a hand.

"Mind handing me the monkey wrench?"

Reign sighed, handing it over. She knew the conversation was over…

A layer of dust kissed the work bench as Cameron worked in silence. His grip firm around the monkey wrench as he secured the last connection. The scent of hay and aged wood lingered in the warm air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of tools. With a final twist, he exhaled and reached for the tarp. He checked over his shoulder once, twice, before finally pulling it back in one smooth motion. Beneath it, a small mound of damp soil with a cannabis sprout sat undisturbed, its rich earth glistening under the artificial glow of synthetic sunlight. The light buzzed softly, casting shadows along the barn walls. Cameron stared at the mound of cannabis plants, his expression hopeful.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

The Lexington Auction House buzzed with energy, the sharp cadence of the auctioneer's voice slicing through the morning air. A young chestnut thoroughbred pranced in the center of the ring, its muscles rippling under the bright lights. Cards shot up like clockwork as bidders jostled to stake their claim. Walter leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the frenzy unfold. He had seen this all before.

"I come here every Saturday to check out the latest livestock," Walter said to Julian, his voice calm and even amid the chaos. "We find something we like; we bring it back and get it ready for the races."

Julian eyed him, skeptical.

"If you're here every Saturday, what you need me for?"

"An extra set of eyes," Walter remarked cryptically.

The auctioneer took the stage, a lively old man in a sports jacket and jeans. His patter picked up speed as an owner hand walked their horse on stage.

"A nice, chestnut thoroughbred brought in by the lovely Stanton family," he said. "Do I hear five thousand? Five in the back. Seven thousand? Ten? Ten from number thirty-four."

The price soared as an elderly woman battled it out against a tech bro, neither willing to concede. After a short back and forth, the tech bro secured the gelding for a staggering hundred grand.

Julian let out a low whistle.

"Hell of a lot more than a car," he said, impressed. "Talk about an investment."

"A horse ready for the track can go for upwards of half a million, depending on the breeding stock," Walter said quickly, his eyes scanning the room for another bid.

"You sat that one out 'cause you broke then?" Julian joked.

"No," Walter shook his head. "It's because I'm looking for a dark horse."

As if on cue, the next horse entered — a midnight-black Arabian, sleek and striking despite a slight limp. The crowd murmured, uncertainty lacing their voices. Walter sat forward.

"Ain't he a beauty," Walter remarked.

"Why?" Julian frowned. "It's injured."

Walter's eyes gleamed. "Bids will be low because of the limp. But it's a sprain — some simple rehab, and he'll be up for the track."

The auctioneer's voice rang out, cutting through the air like butter.

"Black as ink. Isn't she something? You're looking at a pristine Arabian, folks, straight from the Laurel family," he said swiftly. "Let's start at two thousand. Do I hear two? Three thousand in the back — "

Walter flipped his card.

The elderly woman next to him countered with four. Walter raised his card again, matching her price. She hesitated, then backed down, shaking her head. Not worth the trouble.

Ecstatic, Walter nudged Julian, a rare grin playing at the edges of his lips.

"Let's get him in the trailer," he said, excited.

The Lexington sun bore down as Julian and Walter exited the auction house, leading their new horse. The sleek black Arabian moved with a hesitant but steady gait, its dark coat gleaming under the daylight.

"You got a name for him yet?" Julian asked, glancing at Walter.

"Thought you could tell me that." Walter smirked.

Julian considered the horse for a moment, his eyes tracing the powerful lines of its frame. "Midnight," he said finally. "Like his fur."

Walter nodded, letting the name settle. Midnight. It fit.

As they rounded the corner into the parking lot, their conversation halted abruptly. Both men froze in place, their jaws slack.

The word "traitor" was spray-painted in thick, red letters across the front of Walter's trailer. The paint dripped down in uneven streaks, fresh and glaring against the metal.

Julian stayed silent. He had plenty to say, but for once, words failed him. Walter stood silent beside him, fists clenching at his sides.

The weight of the moment hung between them, heavy and unspoken. The air became thick, heavy with something unspoken. Something neither of them could afford to ignore.

The evening air hung thick with the scent of hay and the lingering burn of the blunt Julian passed back to Cameron. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the rolling hills of the Brooks' family ranch, casting long shadows over the paddock where Walter's horses grazed in the golden light. Julian exhaled a slow stream of smoke from his waning blunt, his eyes fixed on the sleek, muscular animals beyond the fence.

"What you think it means?" Cameron asked, his voice low and edged with curiosity. He and Julian were burning through the end of a blunt, blowing the smoke into the outhouse.

Julian shrugged.

"Hell, if I know. Reign said Walter was in some sort of trouble."

Cameron took another drag, thoughtful.

"Think it got something to do with them horses?"

"Got to be that or the money," Julian said, recalling the auction. "You should have seen the stacks these white folks threw around. Easy half-mil."

Cameron let out a low whistle.

"What's so special about them, you think?"

"Them white folks are rich-rich. But they low-key about it," Julian started.

"Meant the horses, doofus," Cameron snickered.

Julian smirked, goading Cameron a little.

"Only one way to find out."

Cameron passed the blunt to Julian, hyping himself up.

"Don't need to tell me twice. If we out here, might as well have a little fun, right?"

Cameron's eyes gleamed with mischief as he swung a leg over the fence.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a voice from behind.

Julian and Cameron turned to find a young woman, hand walking her horse down the dirt road at the edge of Walter's property. Her voice was gentle, but still commanded authority. At sixteen, she carried herself with the poise of a woman who knew exactly who she was — or who she wanted to be. When in fact, it was probably the complete opposite.

The soft breeze lifted a few loose strands of her dark curls as she watched them with something between amusement and warning. Julian couldn't help but notice how her olive skin seemed to glisten in the sun. Suddenly, he felt his mouth go dry.

"I mean," she continued, tilting her head slightly, "unless you like falling on your ass."

Cameron hesitated, caught between bravado and common sense. Julian moved quickly, stuffing the blunt into his pocket as his eyes flickered toward the newcomer.

"And you are?" Cameron demanded, coming down from the fence.

"Not a snitch." She laughed. "Chloe."

Before Julian could tell Chloe his name, she boldly reached into his hand, plucking the blunt from his fingers. She took a slow, deliberate drag, her eyes locked on his as the smoke curled between them.

Julian tried to play it cool.

"How we supposed to know that?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

Chloe exhaled lazily.

"Because everyone smokes weed," she said like it was the most obvious thing on earth. "Everyone has their own reasons; they just don't talk about them."

Julian leaned in slightly, intrigued. He could smell her perfume; a light floral scent that made him feel like he was dancing on clouds.

"What's your reason?"

"I can't reveal all of my vises at once. Gotta keep some things secret." Chloe remarked, coy.

Cameron watched Julian work his magic. While Cameron might have been the more headstrong between the two, Julian had always been a smooth talker. Between them, he seemed to be the only one to get them out of trouble, or find the right time to get into it.

"Didn't realize everyone in Lexington was so open," Julian said smoothly.

"I'd say we're not as open as California, but we still find a way to have our fun." Cameron's brows lifted slightly.

"How'd you know — "

"Where you're from?" Chloe finished for him. "Lexington's small. Word travels fast."

Cameron eyed Chloe curiously, still not completely sold on her intentions.

"Now that we both on the same page, my brother and I might need a little help finding our way around."

"You might be in luck." Chloe smiled back. "I've been told I'm a great tour guide."

Cameron interrupted, breaking the spark between the two. "Anyway, I'm not really interested in tipping cows so what you do when you just want to kick it?"

Chloe smirked, passing the blunt back to Cameron.

"There's a kickback at the lake this weekend. Just something we like to do when we get bored 'tipping cows'.

Chloe's words had piqued Julian's interest. He turned to Cameron, who nodded with encouragement.

"Sounds like an invitation," Julian said. "What time?"

Chloe turned, walking back toward the road.

"9:30 sharp," she called over her shoulder. "Oh, and bring the weed."

Julian and Cameron exchanged looks, barely holding in their excitement as Chloe disappeared into the fading light. It looked like they may have judged Lexington a little too soon.

CHAPTER FOUR

Julian and Cameron stepped onto the yacht; their sneakers crisp against the polished deck and were immediately enveloped by the smell of water, cheap beer, and the sharp bite of backwoods moonshine.

Johnny Cash rumbled through the speakers, cutting through the Kentucky night. Around them, kids in cowboy boots and half-buttoned shirts swayed to the music, red solo cups in hand, laughter spilling over the water like waves.

Cameron scanned the crowd, a slow grin spreading. He's in his street clothes, with a pick in his hair.

"Summer break looking a little different in Kentucky," he said, eyes alive. "This party fly as hell."

"No shit" muttered Julian, eyes flicking over the scene. "Take that pick out your hair. This isn't Long Beach."

From the lower deck, Chloe clocked them immediately. Dark hair glowing under soft deck lights, she made her way up, trailed by a crew that looked like they stepped out of a country club catalog.

First, Rizza — whose blonde bob exuded old Kentucky money, dripping in confidence, flicking ash from a cigarette as she sized them up. Next, Everly — with curly red hair and manicured fingers wrapped around her cup, leaning in as if she were inspecting a pair of rare creatures. Then Bobby, a broad-shouldered Asian man in a letterman's jacket who was built like a linebacker and already a legend in his own mind, smirked at their unfamiliar faces.

"These your cute neighbors?" Rizza asked, her voice dripping with mischief.

Chloe rolled eyes, pushing a cup into Julian's hand.

"Julian and Cameron," Chloe said stiffly. "They just moved from LA, so be nice."

Rizza took a slow sip of her drink, eyes narrowing keenly.

"Aren't I always?"

Cameron's grin widened, clearly intrigued.

Julian, on the other hand, hesitated before glancing at Chloe. Clearly, she downplayed the party. It looked like the entire tri-state area's teens were aboard the ship.

"No big deal?" he asked Chloe, pointedly.

She shrugged; her smile easy. "Just something we do to pass the time." She laughed.

Everly lifted her cup. "Better than fucking up our livers alone," she jested.

Suddenly, Julian felt a firm grip on his shoulder. Bobby stared him down curiously from the other end of his solo cup. He was all smiles, but Julian had a feeling it was all a facade.

"Check it," Bobby joked. "Who booked the Wayan brothers tonight?"

"Why? You a fan," Julian said, matching his energy.

Bobby looked him up and down, but before things could turn awkward, Rizza interjected, nodding toward Cameron's blunt.

"Haven't you heard? Sharing is caring."

"You sure?" Cameron smirked. "Shit's pretty strong."

"As long as it doesn't make me green out," Rizza said, only slightly nervous.

"As if. My friend greened out and saw the devil himself," Everly warned. "Never was the same."

"Chillax." Cameron smiled. "My weed's the cleanest weed you'll ever have. I'll show you how to hit it."

"Just make sure that shits not cut with anything," Bobby threw in, clearly annoyed.

"You got an issue, bro, just say it," Cameron snapped. "Cause you killin' the vibe."

Rizza, annoyed that the spotlight was no longer on her, cleared her throat loudly.

"I think it'd be great if everyone just chilled the fuck out," she said threateningly, looking in Bobby's direction.

Rizza motioned to Cameron, who lit the blunt for her as she took a hit.

Smoke filled her lungs, causing her to cough, hard. Laughter erupted around them.

"Wow," she choked out, dizzy. "This shit's orgasmic!"

Everly leaned in with a smirk.

"Maybe you should swap it out for your vibrator if it's so good."

"And maybe you should find a boyfriend that actually wants to go down on you," Rizza shot back without hesitation.

Everly burst out laughing. It was all fun and games.

"Bitch," she choked through her drink.

Julian lit a bowl for Chloe as more friends gathered around, the blunt now the center of attention. Cameron's weed was creating some noise.

Everly passed the blunt to Chloe, who exhaled a slow stream of smoke, grinning.

"Didn't I tell you it was good shit?"

Bobby nodded, a hint of jealousy. "Definitely strong," he said, turning to Cameron. "This strain from Cali too?"

Cameron leaned back, casual.

"Just a little side hustle I'm working on."

Bobby seemed to be sizing both Cameron and his weed up.

"Well, hustle a little harder," Rizza said with a playful grin. "We need better shit out here."

Everly leaned back on the railing, swirling the last of her beer.

"Chloe's also been known to exaggerate," she warned. "Remember last summer at the Grand Prix?"

Chloe stiffened.

"Let's not get into that — "

She took in Julian's smirk with embarrassment.

"I'd love to get into it, actually," he said quietly, leaning in.

Something about the way Chloe spoke must have struck Bobby the wrong way. He leaned in, unable to stay quiet any longer.

"Didn't Morris have a horse in that race?" he asked Chloe.

"Not sure," she said, uneasy.

"You heard from him lately?"

Chloe's expression hardened. She was suddenly quiet.

"Today marks exactly two weeks he's been M-I-A," she said pointedly to Bobby. Then, she turned to Julian, forcing a tight smile.

"Sorry. Just need a minute."

Without waiting for a response, she pushed out of the crowd and made her way toward the upper deck, tension evident in the stiffness of her posture. As soon as she disappeared, Rizza shot Bobby a glare.

"The fuck is wrong with you? Why would you ask her about Morris?"

Bobby exhaled sharply, clearly upset.

"Why should I sit here and pretend like everything's ok? You and her are both acting like he never existed," he snapped.

"You know she doesn't want to talk about what happened," Rizza reminded, shaking her head.

Julian barely heard the rest. His attention was on Chloe and the way she had left so abruptly. He hesitated for a moment, before getting up and following her.

The upper deck of the Yacht's wheelhouse was quiet, a stark contrast to the lively chatter below. Chloe stood near the bow, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other nursing a drink. The lake reflected the moon in shimmering fragments, but she wasn't watching the water. Instead, she was lost in her own thoughts.

Julian approached her cautiously, his voice low.

"I don't know who Morris is, but that sounded like a dick move the way that he's been swerving you."

Chloe let out a humorless laugh, taking a huge swig of her beer before answering.

"That's because Bobby is a dick."

"For real? Didn't notice," Julian joked.

"He gets threatened when other guys come around. Thinks he's the only minority fighting for space at the table," Chloe admitted. "Doesn't get the fact we're all just trying to survive in this god-forsaken town."

"What do you mean, "we"? " Julian asked, curious.

"Wasn't always easy for me either." Chloe shrugged. "Dad's Dominican. My mom is Kentucky, born and raised."

"I knew you had a little extra something-something." Julian chuckled, settling onto the bench beside her.

"Same with you," Chloe joked. "Didn't know you'd be so chill. Especially after your brother thought I was a narc."

"We been going through some things." Julian grimaced. "Can't be too careful."

"Now you're finally letting your hair down." Chloe smiled.

"Might have finally found a reason to," Julian jested back.

He studied her for a moment, noting the way her fingers tightened around the glass, her shoulders just a little too rigid. He wondered if making friends in Lexington was always this difficult — If they had all just learned to put up walls against outsiders, only waiting to see if you were worth it to let in.

"Lexington always like this then? The parties, the yachts, the dicks?"

Chloe finally turned to look at him, the corner of her mouth twitching upward despite herself.

"More or less. Why? You getting cold feet?"

"Not a chance," Julian said, grinning. "But I am starting to think I should have brought a life jacket."

"What about a good lifeguard?" Chloe smirked.

"And she jokes, too?" Julian laughed. "I think I'm in heaven."

Chloe cracked open another beer, cheering Julian on. Her cheeks were growing red with the alcohol and her voice a little louder. Julian wondered to himself if he should stop her soon.

"The way I see it, parties are rich people's way of distracting themselves from their real problems," Chloe said bitterly. "And Lexington's got a lot of rich people."

"Half the people here probably don't even know what real problems are," Julian said under his breath.

Chloe turned to face him fully. "And you do?"

"More than you might think," Julian admitted.

She studied him for a long moment.

"So that's why you came to Lexington," Chloe said, Julian and Cameron's closed-off demeanor finally landing on her. "You're running from something."

"Or to it, depending on how you look at things," Julian said quietly, holding her gaze.

Chloe took a step closer, their faces inches apart. Julian could see each of the eyelashes on her face, count the freckles on her cheeks. He was close enough to smell her perfume, which enveloped him in a wistful scent of flowers.

"It sounds like we're both looking for a distraction then," Chloe said pointedly.

Without hesitation, she reached for his hand, smoothly plucking the blunt from his fingers. Taking one last drag, she exhaled slowly before leaning in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was slow, teasing, and electric.

As she pulled away, she blew the smoke into his face, her eyes locked onto his.

Julian let out a breathless laugh, vibing with her humor.

"Who said all distractions are a bad thing?"

The air between them crackled. Charged. And then Julian moved — leaning in, catching her lips again. The kiss deepened, bodies pressing together, hands grasping like they'd been waiting for this moment all night.

The party, the music, the rest of the world — it all faded. Right now, it was just them.

The bass thumped through the wooden deck, shaking it under the weight of half-drunken bodies. Down below, the party continued, oblivious to what was unfolding above. Laughter and screams mixed with the humid night air. Some kids were dripping wet, fresh out of the lake, still in their underwear — others had ditched their clothes completely. Over by the railing, Everly hunched forward, dry heaving, while Bobby stood behind her, rubbing slow circles on her back. Although the reality of it was, Bobby probably couldn't care less.

Near the diving board, Cameron tilted back another shot. No chaser, no hesitation. The burn barely made him flinch.

"You like games, right?" Rizza smirked. "Let's play one now. It's called 'What Would You Do.'"

"I'm too good them." Cameron smiled, intrigued. "Start."

"You're at a party in LA and I'm the prettiest girl in the room," Rizza said coyly. "What would you do?"

"Pour you a forty and take you to the back," Cameron offered.

"Relax," Rizza said, batting her lashes. "I'm a lady."

"In that case, I'd give you my jacket and walk you on home," Cameron whispered. "Gives me a chance to come and get it from you later."

Rizza watched him with a grin, lips glossy with liquor. "You are too good at this," she teased.

Cameron smirked, rolling his shoulders. Rizza was reckless, untamed, fun. She matched his energy, and he liked that.

"I've had a lot of practice," Cameron said, nudging her back.

Rizza leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear.

"Then you won't mind showing me what else that tongue can do?"

Cameron blinked, half shocked, half amused.

But before he could reply, his body was slammed by a small figure, tumbling toward the lake.

A strangled scream slices through the night.

A flash of mousy brown hair and the pale fly by — The next thing Cameron knows a young woman is grabbing at his jacket as they're both catapulted toward the lake.

The cold water shockd Cameron's skin. He was spinning, upside down. Together, he and the young woman flail in the water, entangled arms slapping against the surface, wild and desperate. The party noise choked to a halt. For a split second, nobody moves.

"I got you! Hang on — " Cameron calls, trying to right himself.

He wnet under again, the cold swallowing him whole. His muscles burned as he paddled through the darkness, his eyes locked on the girl struggling ahead. His fingers skimmed her wrist, and he grasped tight, pulling her toward shore. But just as he pushed her toward safety, something yanked him downward.

The current — strong and unseen. It was dragging him under.

The surface vanished, swallowed by the dark as Cameron's head is bounces against a rock. His chest tightened. His limbs fought against the pull, panic clawing up his throat. The water blurred — his vision twisted —

He was in a bathtub.

Water sloshed down the sides of the tub as two-year-old Cameron giggled; a red toy car clutched in his small fingers. The warmth of the water cocooned him, the world simple and safe. But then the sounds shifted — voices distorted as gentle hands brought themselves into the tub.

It was a social worker, face unseen — or perhaps unremembered in Cameron's mind. She reached down next to him, lifting a tiny, unmoving body from the water.

Julian.

Cameron's arms shot up, grasping for the woman. The social worker reaches for him next…

But the memory becomes shattered, the bathtub dissolving into darkness.

Water fills Cameron's mouth, burning his lungs. His chest screamed for air.

And then — nothing. Only darkness.

CHAPTER FIVE

The fluorescent lights of Lexington General Hospital cast a harsh glow over the emergency room, the sterile scent of antiseptic thick in the air. Walter and Reign pushed through the heavy doors; their breath ragged from running. The chaos of the ER swirled around them — doctors rushing from room to room, patients groaning from behind thin curtains.

Reign found Julian, slumped against the wall outside a closed door, his face pale and shaken. Her breath caught in her throat, grateful that he was okay.

But just as suddenly as the shock had turned into relief, the relief turned to anger.

"What were you two thinking?" Reign demanded, her voice sharp with anger and fear.

Julian's tried to placate Reign, but the guilt was all over his face.

"We were just — "

"You weren't," Reign cut him off. "I brought you here to keep you out of trouble and now look where we are."

Now, it was Julian's turn to be upset. His head snapped up. He was suddenly wide awake.

"You being for real," he scoffed. "We didn't ask to come here. You were our only option — "

"And you're sitting here screwing it up!" Reign shouted. "This was supposed to be your second chance!"

Before Julian could snap back, Walter stepped between them, his presence a steady force in the already charged air.

"Take a breath," he said quietly to Reign. "Give the boys some room."

Reign exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "And what? Let them continue to destroy their lives while we stand by and watch?"

"Worrying about what's done isn't going to help either," Walter reasoned. Then, a new thought struck his mind. "What about your friend Izzy? Maybe she could help us cut through some hospital red tape — "

"No, thank you," Reign snapped, shooting it down. "She's the last person I want to dial in a favor from."

"You aren't making this very easy." Walter sighed.

"Easy?" Reign let out a bitter laugh. She was lashing out and Walter knew it. Instead of responding he just stood back, letting her have her moment.

"How about we talk about why you called me to Kentucky?" Reign continued. "I'm sure pulling you out of whatever fresh hell you've gotten yourself into this time isn't going to be easy."

Walter's expression darkened, but he kept his voice level.

"Or you could just tell me what's really going on," he said quietly. "Because I know my daughter, and this isn't her."

Reign hesitated, the weight of unspoken words pressing against her chest. She searched Walter's face, debating how much to say, how much he could handle.

"You wouldn't understand," she muttered.

Walter held her gaze, unwavering.

"Then why don't you help me out?"

Everything in the room felt like it was teetering on the edge of something inevitable. And Reign wasn't sure she was ready for the fall.

But before she could respond, a nurse in pale blue scrubs approached, clutching a clipboard. She looked tired, but relieved. But her face said it all, everything was going to be okay.

"Ms. Brooks?" she said, her voice professional but kind. "Cameron's being discharged."

The words hit Reign like a jolt of relief, snapping her out of the moment. She felt her body relax.

"Thanks," Reign said. "Thank you."

And she meant it.

The triage room at Lexington General Hospital was dimly lit, the air thick with antiseptic and the faint beeping of distant monitors. Cameron winced as he slipped from the hospital gown back into his clothes from the party. The bruises along his ribs protesting the movement.

His throat was dry, the lingering effects of dehydration making every swallow feel like sandpaper. As he adjusted his shirt, a prickling sensation crawled up his spine — someone was watching him.

He turned his head just in time to see the curtain shift. A flicker of movement. Then, just as quickly, it stilled.

"Hello?" he called out, voice still hoarse.

Rustling could be heard as the curtain drew a little tighter. Cameron could see the outline of a body. It was small, probably female, with skinny arms and long legs.

"Please don't open it," the voice whispered. "I'm not decent."

Cameron arched an eyebrow.

"Neither am I," he started. "But if you're gonna peek at my bare ass in this gown, can I at least get a name?"

"Guess I'm pretty shit at introductions," the voice said quietly.

"Wait, that's not what I meant," Cameron said, apologetically. "Can we start over?"

There was a slight pause as the voice considered for a moment.

"I just wanted to see who pulled me out of the lake."

Cameron's muscles tensed, the weight of his decision finally dawning on him.

"That was you?"

"Don't make a big deal out of it," the voice said, tense.

Cameron let out a short laugh.

"Didn't know you were also an anchor."

"Only when I've had too many shots and a hit of strong weed," the voice said sheepishly. "Must have overshot and blacked out."

Cameron paused. Although it was a long shot, he considered the idea that his weed being passed around the party might be responsible. Suddenly, he felt guilty.

"Sorry," he started. "I didn't mean — "

"Are you kidding me? Give me regards to the chef," the voice said. "That was the best time I've had in years."

"If that's your definition of a good time, I don't want to see your definition of a bad time." He grimaced. "You almost took both of us out."

For the first time since waking up in the hospital, Cameron felt the weight of the night ease. The soft sound of the voice's soft laughter melted away the tension, the moment taking on a surreal lightness.

"I'm Ava," she finally said.

"Cameron."

"Thank you, Cameron. For saving my life," Ava said quietly. "I owe you one."

Cameron leaned toward the curtain, intrigued.

"Well, you can start by letting me know what you look like," he said, a bit hesitant.

Before she could respond, a knock at the door made them both flinch. The curtain swayed slightly as the nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand. She rattled off a set of instructions to he and Cameron signed a few forms before she left.

Cameron glanced back at the curtain. "Ava?"

Silence.

He reached for the fabric and yanked it aside. The space behind it was empty.

She was already gone.

Cameron stood there for a moment, his pulse thrumming in his ears. A girl who had almost drowned, who had pulled him under with her, and now — just as suddenly — vanished.

But the exchange had stirred something in Cameron. If there was one thing he loved, it was a good challenge.

Ava was mystery girl.

And now, he had to find her.

The barn was blasting POWER 106 featuring break out artist Lil Kim's new album Hard Core. The upbeat rhythm gave life to the dimly lit space. Cameron lay back on his bunk, hands behind his head, while Julian sat up, elbows resting on his knees. It had been less than 48 hours after Cameron's near brush with death and Julian was astounded to find that Cameron had been the least bit shaken. Although, he was pretty sure it was all a front.

"You sure you're…okay?" Julian asked, studying his brother's face.

Cameron grinned — his effervescent, contagious smile that wanted to prove to everyone he was perpetually "all right."

"I'm straight," Cameron said. "Just might stay away from the pool for a while."

Julian chuckled, shaking his head. He didn't buy it for a minute.

"You sure? That was a nasty dive," he said pointedly.

"And I'm a nasty dude," Cameron shot back. "Went to heaven and back for a minute and still came back the flyest guy in this barn."

Julian sighed, stretching his legs out. Cameron wouldn't dare show a chip in his armor, but it had been worth a shot.

"Let's just keep your feet on the ground for now," he told him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The music filled the silence, the low hum of crickets outside blending in. Cameron lit up a blunt, his last, for now. He'd been smoking more than usual since his brush with death.

Then Cameron spoke up, his tone quieter this time. "Thought about home."

Julian glanced over, Cameron's candidness taking him by surprise.

"LA?"

"Nah," Cameron murmured, eyes on the ceiling. "Our real home. Real mom."

"Be for real. No way you remember anything about that," Julian said.

"I do," Cameron admitted, thinking hard. "I remember it was loud all the time. Cold floors. Rough blankets. Felt like I was always sick."

"Because you were always hungry," Julian said. "There's a reason you always trying to save your food."

Cameron felt his spine shiver at the memory.

"Our mom –"

"Was never there," Julian said bitterly. "Which is why CPS came to take us."

"It was just a dream," Cameron hedged. "Don't even trip."

"Sounds like more of a nightmare," Julian countered.

"You think this is better?" Cameron turned his head, watching his brother's reaction.

Julian let out a slow breath, nestling deeper into his bunk. It was as if he was really thinking about it.

"Could be, maybe under different circumstances," he admitted.

They didn't even have to mention Big Smoke's name. The reality that loomed, brought a heaviness into the room. The barn walls felt smaller, like they were closing in on them. It was a threat they had not yet forgotten, no matter how far away they were. It was as if Big Smoke was biding his time, just waiting to make a move.

"Speaking of which, I saw you wired cash to Angel the other day."

"Not sure what you're talking about." Cameron grinned playfully. "But I know that pizza money Reign be giving us ain't enough to pay Big Smoke back."

"So, you got some spare change, then?"

"Just a little something-something I made at the yacht party." Cameron smiled.

"Oh, so we're out there selling big when I was gone," Julian ribbed.

"Upstairs with that chick? Don't think I didn't notice," Cameron started. "So was she fly or what?"

"I don't kiss and tell," Julian said smugly.

"All good, I'll just ask her when I see her." Cameron laughed. "I'm about to deliver next door."

Julian choked on a mouth full of smoke, suddenly realizing what Cameron meant.

"She's our neighbor," Julian spat. "The hell you didn't tell me."

"I didn't know." Cameron laughed. "But with the way Blue Grass been blowing up, thought I'd make some home deliveries."

"Blue Grass?"

"Perfect name for a perfect strain," Cameron said, rubbing his hands together.

Julian studied him for a moment before giving a reluctant nod.

"Aight, you got a little something going on. But you ain't all that."

"For reals, my pager's been beeping non-stop since that party." Cameron smiled. People trying to pay triple than what we were selling for in LA. No questions asked. I'm just saying…"

"That if we can keep selling, we could buy our lives back," Julian finished.

Cameron smirked, a secret playing in his eyes.

"Trust me. I'm working on it."

"Not sure I like the sound of that," Julian admitted.

"Trust. This about to be the biggest come-up the world has ever seen." Cameron assured.

Julian ran a hand over his face, exhaling. It was obvious he still had some reservations.

"You ever heard of 'mo money, 'mo problems?" He threw out. "This might be a come-up, but don't forget, Big Smoke still gotta green light on your head."

"You sounding like you already in," Cameron said, eyes gleaming.

Julian hesitated, then he rolled his eyes. Cameron knew that it was only a matter of time before he finally had him.

"Fine. But just until we're straight. Then we're out."

Cameron's excitement was instantaneous. He reached out, dapping up his brother. "Congrats, partner. You just placed the biggest bet of your life."

Julian smiled, resolved. But he had little to say. The weight of his choice settled between them, heavier than the smoke that once filled the barn.

Across their shared property line, Chloe stepped out of the cab, her heels clicking against the pavement as she adjusted the hem of her dress. The night with Rizza and the girls had been long, filled with laughter, but as she neared the front door of her house, the light buzz in her head dimmed.

A car — too familiar to ignore — sat parked just a few feet away, its engine off, but its presence louder than any sound.

Her stomach tightened. She hesitated, then stepped off the path, creeping toward the side of the house. As she turned the corner, there he was — Morris Stanton, son to not only one of the most prominent doctors in town. Chloe had been in love with him since Kindergarten, their parents having both started them in show jumping from an early age. Morris understood what it was like to face the pressures their parents would thrust on them. Their bond was an easy one that quickly blossomed into a romance. They were each other's first. in more than one way.

There was a time that Moris had been gentle and kind, but this was all before his parents made him a pawn in the politics of the equestrian world and with it, all the bad habits that could destroy a young man's life.

Morris, the boy who once burned so brightly, only to collapse under his own fire. He stood near her bedroom window, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn-out jacket.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Morris turned, a smirk ghosting across his lips.

"Early release for good behavior."

Chloe crossed her arms, not really buying it. Morris was a smooth talker and she had been fooled more than once.

"Release, or a bribe?"

His smirk widened, but there was something hollow in his eyes. "What difference does it make?" he said, a little harsh. Then, he corrected himself. "Look, the first person I came to see was you."

"Well, you shouldn't have," Chloe spat.

She spun toward the door, but before she could take another step, his fingers brushed against hers — just for a second, just enough to remind her of what used to be. Anger flared in her chest, and she pulled away. Morris wasn't deterred. He followed, grabbing her arm with just a little too much force.

"Ow. Let go," she snapped, yanking free.

"Just listen to me," he pleaded. "Please –"

"Why should I?" Chloe started. "You disappeared for weeks, no calls, no messages — nothing. And now you just show up like we can pick up where we left off?"

"It's not like that," Morris said quickly, shaking his head. "They took my phone."

Chloe scoffed; she had finally heard enough.

"Well good luck finding a new one."

She turned on her heel, heading toward her car. Morris called after her.

"Wait." His voice softened. There was an air of desperation in it that Chloe couldn't ignore. It was her weakness.

"I know I should've called first," he continued. "But I was scared you wouldn't see me."

"You're damn right," Chloe said, her lip trembling.

"I'm sorry for the ambush," he continued. "But I miss you, Chloe. I can't do this sobriety thing without you."

Chloe stopped, her breath caught somewhere between anger and something even more dangerous — pity.

She took in Morris, who had aged since she had seen in last. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken. And then she noticed it — blood trickling from his nose.

Chloe exhaled, exasperated. With ease and because she had done it a million times before, she pulled a tissue from her purse.

"Looks like rehab didn't do a damned thing," she muttered, dabbing the blood away before reaching for his hand.

She took Morris by the hand, just as she had done with Julian's the night before, then led him into the house. Although if she had to admit to herself, everything she was doing was against her better judgment.

Walter watched from across the property line at Chloe and Morris as he had many times. This was nothing new to them. The break up and make up.

Walter loaded and secured the last few bags of feed onto the trailer.

As he fastened the straps, his gaze flickered to the road beyond the paddock. A pickup truck sat idling across the way, its headlights glowing against the dusk. Something about it set his nerves on edge. It looked familiar, as if he'd seen it somewhere before — the night he was drugged. The sight of it sent a chill up his spine.

Walter squinted, trying to make out the figure behind the wheel, but before he could step closer, movement to his left caught his attention. Julian and Cameron approached, their boots crunching against the dirt.

"Reign said you needed help loading the feed?" Julian asked, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Walter nodded, peeling his eyes from the truck and fixing them on Julian.

"We're headed to Churchill Downs in the morning," he started. "Scouting some new clients."

Without another word, the three men set to work, hoisting the heavy sacks onto the trailer.

But once Julian and Cameron were occupied, Walter took a step back, rounding the corner of the barn for another glance at the truck.

It was already gone, dust in its wake, just taillights fading into the night.

Cameron grunted as he tossed the last bag into place.

"Where's Churchill Downs?"

Walter laughed in disbelief. While everyone seemed to know everything about horses in Lexington, sometimes he forgot that Julian and Cameron were still getting their ranch legs.

"More like 'what.' It's the biggest racetrack west of the Mississippi," he explained. "Home of the Kentucky Derby."

It was also the only place Walter knew where a few hundred dollars could make a man a millionaire in less than sixty seconds.

"Dope," Cameron said. "We love fast shit."

"Let's bounce." Julian smirked, picking up what his brother was putting down.

Walter shot them a sideways glance, pleased.

"Hope you brought a sports jacket."

The three of them stood there a moment, the night settling in around them. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied, and the wind carried the scent of fresh hay and earth. But Walter's mind wasn't on the trip ahead — it was on that truck, and the feeling it left in his gut.

CHAPTER SIX

Churchill Downs shimmered in the afternoon light, a spectacle of wealth and tradition. Wide-brimmed hats bobbed above tailored suits, the scent of freshly cut grass and expensive cologne lingering in the air. Jockeys posed beside their towering horses, flashing grins for cameras, while reporters elbowed their way through the crowd, desperate for a soundbite. The thunder of hooves rattled the earth, sending tremors through Julian's chest as he walked alongside Cameron, Walter, and Reign.

"Welcome to the Staple's Center of horseracing," Walter exclaimed. "Better than front row tickets to a Lakers game."

"They're not race cars," Cameron mused, his eyes following the sleek, muscled bodies of the horses. "But they fast as hell."

Julian let out a low whistle, taking in the stallions.

"No lie? Never thought I'd be in a place like this," he admitted aloud.

Walter turned his gaze toward the track, nodding to Cameron and Julian. They could feel another history lesson coming on.

"It's in your blood," he started. "Some of the first jockeys were Black men? That is, before Jim Crow pushed them aside."

"Never owned their horses, either," Reign added.

"That's why I intend to protect mine," Walter said, pointedly. A knowing glance passed between Reign and her father.

Reign reached into her pocket and handed Julian and Cameron each a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

"Get something to eat," she suggested, her tone light but firm. "Pop and I have some catching up to do."

Cameron didn't need to be told twice.

"Say less," he said, already scanning the food stands.

Julian followed, though his mind lingered on Walter's words.

Behind them, Reign watched her father, wondering if he was finally ready to share the truth.

In the stands, Reign settled into her seat. The scent of freshly cut grass and sweat-soaked leather wrapping around her like an old memory. Churchill Downs had always felt more like home than anywhere else, but today, the weight of the past pressed down harder. She felt as if she were in a time capsule.

Walter sat beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the track.

"All feels so familiar," she said quietly.

"It should be," Walter scowled. "Spent the better part of your life here."

Reign turned to Walter; exasperated.

"When are we going to stop living in the past, Pop?" She started. "It's starting to get old."

Walter's lips curled into a bitter smirk. Reign already knew the answer.

"When it stops trying to come back and bite me in the ass." He laughed.

A moment of silence stretched between them. Reign scanned the track, the grandstands, the horses warming up. Something was different today — an undercurrent of unease threading through the usual excitement. Or maybe it was Reign coming to her senses, realizing she'd finally had enough of the secrets.

"Then it's time to start talking," she said.

Walter hesitated, then ran a hand over his stubbled jaw.

"I already told you," Walter growled. "Saw something I wasn't supposed to see."

Walter's gaze distant.

"I was doing my midnight rounds when I heard something," he started quietly. "Followed the noise out back. That's when I saw the horse getting put down, if you know what I mean. A few weeks later, a big insurance policy got cashed out, and I woke up on the track. Right back where it all started."

Reign's stomach clenched. She knew the scream of a horse very well. It was a horrific and frightening sound. Horses were intelligent creatures and she couldn't imagine what could have been running through its mind during the cruelty of its final seconds.

"That Arabian was a favorite for the Derby qualifier — "

"Which means someone would rather have that horse dead than money in the wrong hands," Walter said. "And I'm the only thing standing that could screw it up for them."

Reign's pulse quickened. Churchill Downs had always been about the thrill of the race. But today, the stakes were higher. And for the first time, the past wasn't just chasing them — it was closing in.

"Any leads on who might want to put a horse down?" she asked.

Walter exhaled sharply, running a hand through his graying hair. He was worried and Reign was too.

"No, but I'm sure I'm on plenty of hit lists," he said, only half joking.

Reign took a moment or process. It was just like her dad, always in some sort of trouble. It had been the same story since she was a little girl and to be honest, she wasn't sure if he was ever going to learn.

"That's what happens when you get in with the wrong people," she said bitterly. "It starts to catch up with you."

Walter hung his head, the weight of his past heavy on his shoulders.

"I have a lot of sins to atone for, but I had nothing to do with that Arabian's death," he said quietly. "You have to believe that."

She studied him, trying to separate truth from years of deception. She'd lost count of how many times he had sworn he was done gambling, done drinking, done owing the wrong people.

And yet, here he was again — standing at the edge of another mess, looking to her to help clean it up.

"Well, you haven't made it easy, over the years," Reign admitted tersely. The past tasted bitter on her tongue.

"I'm not trying to erase the past," Walter started. "But I am trying to do things the right way this time. Even if it means going through the law. It's the reason why I called you."

Reign leaned her head back on the bench, unsure of what to do. Even if she wanted to help her father, she wasn't even sure if she could.

"You know social Services isn't exactly criminal law adjacent."

"But you must know someone," Walter pressed. "A defense attorney, investigator? Hell, a county clerk — "

Reign sighed, already knowing the answer. Still, it was worth a try.

"What you need is protection. Because right now all signs point to you — their scapegoat."

Relief flickered in Walter's gaze. Reign was on board.

"Thank you — "

"But," Reign interrupted, her voice firm. "If I'm going to put my life on hold back in LA to help you figure this out, I need to know everything. No more secrets."

Secrets had always been his currency, but this time, they might cost him more than he could afford. He looked at Reign, regret in his eyes, finally knowing it was time to give up his old ways.

Walter hesitated, then took a deep breath, steeling himself.

"Okay, I'll tell you everything," he started. "Starting with one name you might be familiar with. The Sleeper."

The words sent a chill down Reign's spine. The Sleeper wasn't just a name. It was a warning.

The betting suite at Churchill Downs was the epitome of wealth. Julian and Cameron stepped inside, the air thick with cigar smoke and thousand-dollar wagers. Men in tailored suits and women draped in silk and diamonds milled about, clutching tickets worth more than a month's salary for most. This was real money, and it moved fast.

Cameron exhaled, shaking his head as he watched a man drop a stack of crisp bills at the counter without a second thought.

"These people just throwing down stacks like Monopoly money," he told Julian. "All this, for a horse race?"

Julian smirked, rolling a betting slip between his fingers. "Not just a race." He nodded. "Walter said some of these horses sell for half a mill."

Cameron leaned against the railing. His gaze flickered across the field.

"Chloe said that rich people have the most problems and the most vices. Imagine if Bluegrass could be their solution," he wondered aloud. "Now that's an investment — and some real dough."

Julian watched the horses on the track for a moment, as they paraded toward the starting gate. He had placed a bet on Number 7, a striking white thoroughbred with a proud gait. It was something about the animal's power, its effortless confidence, that held his attention.

"What if they could?" Julian said suddenly. He was deep in thought, keeping his eyes on the thoroughbred.

"Shoot, if that were the case, we'd need a much bigger farm." Cameron laughed. But Julian didn't falter.

"You said that shit grows quick here?" Julian started, eyes still on the track. "How fast?"

Cameron studied him for a long moment, finally realizing he was serious.

"Three to four weeks tops. But the grow time isn't the problem, it's how the hell we'd hide all the cash from Reign."

Julian's expression didn't change. His gaze remained on the racetrack, watching the horses take their mark. A slow smile curled at the edges of his mouth.

"In plain mother fucking sight."

Cameron let out a low chuckle, picking up what Julian was putting down. He liked where his brother's head was at.

"Them horses like walking piggy bank." Cameron was sold.

The starting bell rang, and Number 7 exploded from the gate, muscles flexing under a gleaming white coat. Julian watched, but his mind was already ahead, calculating. If this worked — if they played it right — they wouldn't just be betting on the races.

They'd own them.

Julian leaned forward, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of the betting counter. His mind was already spinning, not just with the thrill of the race but with the bigger picture. The real game.

"Grow. Sell. Buy. Race. Repeat." Julian murmured, thinking hard.

Cameron shook his head, laughing.

"Except we know shit about horses," he reminded Julian.

"But I know someone who does… Walter," Julian said, his tone confident. "We buy them using the money from our weed sales. Keep all the transactions private. Let Walter do his thing and get them ready for the track. Learn that shit"

Cameron frowned, rubbing his chin.

"Didn't you say these things were expensive?"

"Not when they need rehab," Julian said, knowingly. It's all a hustle.

Cameron's expression shifted as the pieces started to fall into place.

"Sell them back for double the purchase price."

"Never hurt to pick up a race or two." Julian nodded. "All anyone would ever know is that we're just two very wealthy and very discreet businessmen."

The tension in the air was electric. Not just on the track, but between Julian and Cameron — who knew that they might be on to something that could change their lives forever.

Reign placed an empty set of glasses on the worn wooden bar top, her fingers steady despite the rush of memories flooding back. The whiskey gleamed amber under the dim lights, the scent sharp and familiar. Just as she reached for the drinks, movement to her left caught her eye.

A woman, beautiful I her own right — and just as secretive. The bar at Churchill Downs had seen its fair share of ghosts, but none quite like this.

Isabella "Izzy" Luna.

Reign's breath hitched. It had been years — long enough for old wounds to fade into scars — but seeing Izzy now, in the flesh, felt like reopening them with a dull knife. Izzy's wide eyes mirrored the same disbelief, as if she too were staring at a ghost.

"Reign?" Izzy's voice was barely audible over the raucous chatter of the race track bar.

Reign made to pivot, heading toward the bathroom, but it was too late.

"Reign Brooks? When did you get into town?" Izzy asked, eyes narrowing as she leaned against the bar.

"Few weeks ago," Reign said, setting her glass down. "Just helping Dad with a project."

Izzy tilted her head, seeming to know everything before Reign said a word.

"I see Walter from time to time. How is he?"

Reign let out a short breath, her expression unreadable. "I'd say he's pretty much the same," she said quietly.

Izzy took in his coldness, a hint of disappointment flickering in her eyes. Silence passed between them, thick with the weight of years unspoken.

"Still, it's good to see you," Izzy admitted, her voice softer now. "After all this time, I thought I'd at least get a phone call."

Reign smirked, though there was no real amusement behind it.

"The phone has always worked both way, you know."

"Only if the other person knows you're still alive," Izzy countered.

The words hit Reign harder than expected. Her clenched his jaw, eyes darkening.

"We don't have to do this, especially here" she muttered, looking away.

But they both knew it was too late for that.

Before Izzy could respond, a tall man approached, sliding an arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, his presence staking an unspoken claim.

Izzy's Fiancé, Reign realized.

Izzy glanced away, polite but distant, before turning her full attention to the man. Drinks in hand, she followed him toward their box suite.

Reign exhaled slowly, gripping the two whiskey glasses like they were anchors. The past had a cruel way of surfacing when least expected. Shaking it off, she turned on her heel and headed toward the stands — hoping never to be caught off guard like that again.

The climb to the top was slower than usual, the weight of the encounter pressing against her ribs. By the time she reached their seats, her stomach sank. Walter was gone.

Panic didn't flicker across Reign's face. Walter's behavior was all too familiar. It was the same disappearing act she dealt with since she was a kid.

A black Mercedes prowled around the corner, its tires whispering against the pavement. The tinted window slid down, releasing a thick curl of weed smoke.

Walter gave a curt nod.

It was Bobby, still sporting the same letterman jacket from the yacht party.

Walter yanked open the door and slid into the passenger seat.

"Got your message," Bobby muttered, his voice smooth, unreadable. "This all yours? Someone must be under a lot of stress."

"That's my business, isn't it," Walter ignores the jibe, handing over a crisp stack of twenties. "You just keep doing what you're doing."

Bobby took his time counting, letting the silence stretch between them. When he hit a hundred, he tucked the cash away.

"Out here trying, but you know how it is in this game. Always someone making you look over your shoulder."

"I might be the only person in town that knows what you mean," Walter said, smirking.

Bobby's expression darkens.

"Someone's always trying to shake things up."

"Someone giving you trouble?"

"Just some new cats trying to blow up my hustle. I'm handling it," Bobby said, shaking him off.

"Knowing you, I'm sure you'll teach whoever it is a lesson."

With a tip of the hat, Walter exits the car. The Mercedes peeled out, leaving behind a ghostly haze of smoke…

The ember at the tip of his joint flared red, illuminating the sharp lines of Walter's face inhaling deeply before he exhaled, sending the smoke curling through the air before entering the basement. With practiced ease, he twisted the lock on the safe.

The heavy metal door swung open, revealing stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills and a sleek black pistol resting on top.

The weight of the past, the weight of decisions yet to be made, all sat before him. He took another slow drag, letting the haze settle over him like a fog. Somewhere in the distance, hooves thundered against the dirt, the race ongoing. But down here, in the dim light of the basement, the real stakes were about to be played.

The scent of damp earth and wood filling the air. Cameron knelt in the dim light of the barn. He lifted the tarp carefully, revealing several cannabis plants pushing their way through the soil, the growth of the roots accelerated by the Kentucky soil. Julian crouched beside him, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. The synthetic lights above hummed faintly, casting an unnatural glow over the fragile green leaves.

It was as if the brothers could see it in real time. The seedlings stretched, leaves unfurled, stems thickened. The once-barren patch beneath the tarp transformed into a cluster of thriving plants, their deep green leaves reaching toward the artificial sun.

The idea of their weed taking off thrusts them into the abyss, showing them what could become of an uncertain future. The past consuming the present, the future teetering on the edge of the unknown…

CHAPTER SEVEN

A foggy haze takes us through the streets of Lexington… each home a place of secrets and hidden desires, of dreams and demons kept locked away safely behind closed doors, waiting to come alive…

Rizza exhaled a slow stream of smoke before flicking the blunt away. The ember glowed briefly before dying in the dirt. She pushed open the door of her trailer, stepping inside. The illusion shattered instantly — designer bags sat haphazardly on a secondhand couch, and the remnants of last night's dinner cluttered the counter. Her father's voice grumbled from the back room, but she ignored it. The rich-girl facade she wore outside these walls didn't belong here.

Miles away, Ava pulled her car into the driveway, the night settling around them in thick silence. She passed the joint back to Morris, the cherry burning softly between his fingers.

"This stays between us, right, Ava?" Morris asked, his voice low.

Ava took another hit, holding the smoke in before nodding.

"Exactly," she said quietly. "Nobody ever needs to know."

Izzy dangled a cigarette between her fingers, its smoke curling into the night. She glanced down at the worn photograph in her other hand — a younger version of herself, smiling against the warmth of Reign's lips. A time when things had felt simple. Safe. She took another drag, her eyes lingering on the photo.

Reign sat in the car, her fingers flipping through an old, worn CPS file. Julian and Cameron's names were printed in bold letters across the front. Paper-thin memories, neatly stacked and categorized, but heavy with a past that couldn't be rewritten.

She paused at a photograph — two small boys in the arms of a smiling woman. The name tag on her uniform read "Reign Brooks."

A slow exhale. The flick of a lighter. Smoke filled the car as she took a deep drag from her joint.

She knew better than anyone else that this town was full of secrets, hers one of the biggest of them all.

Weeks had passed since the boys had seen the cannabis plants they'd coined "Blue Grass" blossoming beneath the window seal in Walter's barn, they found themselves at Churchill Downs. Here, the air was thick with the familiar scent of damp earth and spent adrenaline.

Julian and Cameron stood near the paddock, their eyes locked on the auctioneer, a man who had seen more failed dreams than fulfilled ones. In one hand, he held a contract; in the other, a set of congratulatory cigars that felt premature.

"You sure you want this one?" the auctioneer asked, his tone measured, but his expression was one of disbelief.

Cameron didn't hesitate. "This our winner right here," he said confidently.

The auctioneer opened the stall, letting Julian and Cameron have a good look at the stallion. He was beautiful.

"Was. Last race left him with a limp," he warned. "Used to be priced at a hundred grand, but for three thousand, he's yours."

Julian smirked, an unknown sentiment shared between him and Cameron.

"Someone once told me one bad race don't count you out. And for three thousand, I'm willing to place a bet on our payout."

He reached for the contract just as Cameron's pager vibrated.

It was Angel.

Cameron stepped away and found a pay phone. He dialed Angel's number, waiting for him to pick up.

"You won't guess what we doing right now — buying a mother fucking horse –"

Angel's voice was tense, distant.

"You alone?"

Julian came over, catching the shift in Cameron's expression.

"What's going on?" Cameron said into the phone.

"Big Smoke wanted me to send you a message," Angel warned.

His reply was edged with something dark. Final. It sent a shiver through the Taylor brother's spine.

"If this is about the loan, it's all good. We got a way to pay him back, a lot sooner — just need a few more — " Cameron faltered, taking in the uncomfortable silence.

"Angel? You there? What was the message Smoke sent?"

"Time's up," Angel replied.

BAM!

A gunshot rang out through the speaker.