Torn from the Whiskey Woven Dreams Journal.
Rain slicked the alley, neon reflections twisting in the puddles like broken promises. I yanked my Carhartt Detroit Jacket tighter against the damp night, the black canvas worn soft from years of hustling. It was my armor, shielding me from the cold and the constant hunger gnawing at my ribs.
"You good?" Rosa asked, cracking her gum, smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers. She shifted her weight, her Urban Nikes scuffing against the concrete. Black with a chrome swoosh—street tough, built for running, for stomping a fool out if it came to that.
Danny stood a few feet away, adjusting his Sony VX1000, the kind that caught every grimy detail in crisp, unforgiving tape. He was always filming, searching for the rawest truths. And tonight, he caught something he shouldn’t have.
The deal went south fast. The North Side Kings weren’t just old-school ruthless. They were bloodthirsty. I should’ve known better than to trust them, but the high made me stupid. Gunfire cracked through the night. Danny dove behind a dumpster, still rolling. Rosa grabbed my arm, nails digging deep.
"Move, motherfucker!" she hissed.
We ran, ghosts slipping through the backstreets, the city pressing in with its concrete jaws. My heart slammed against my ribs, meth and adrenaline making my vision burn. I needed another hit. I needed out.
They chased us for days, cutting off exits, watching our old haunts. Every shadow felt like death. We crashed in abandoned spots, barely sleeping, barely eating. My hands shook from withdrawal, but fear kept me wired. I could hear the Kings laughing in my head. "You thought you could burn us and walk away?"
We holed up in an abandoned apartment, sirens wailing in the distance. Rosa paced, smoke curling from her lips, her gum snapping like a warning shot. "That camera? It got everything. They’ll come for us."
Danny swallowed hard. "We need to bury this."
I shook my head, the withdrawal already licking at the edges of my bones. "We need to show it. Let the world see what they are."
Rosa stared at me, eyes flickering with something between fear and something deeper—trust. "And what? We get clipped first?"
She stepped close, the scent of smoke and bubblegum mixing with the sweat on my skin. She kissed me, tongue sliding past my lips, tasting of nicotine and regret. But she pulled away, gaze slipping past me to where Danny sat watching.
She moved toward him, something raw in her expression, challenging. I leaned back, pulse pounding as Rosa straddled Danny, fingers curling into his hair. Danny let the camera roll, but his hands shook as she leaned in, breath ghosting over his jaw. She kissed him, slow and hard, then turned, eyes locking with mine, daring me.
It wasn’t love. It was survival. It was a moment to forget the blood outside, the bodies piling up. And for once, I let myself watch.
But reality is a bastard, and dawn came with a hammer to the door. The North Side Kings weren’t done. We ran again, but this time, I had clarity. I wasn’t gonna die a junkie. I wasn’t gonna let them dictate the ending.
The old '70 GMC truck sat at the curb, two-tone, faded orange and white, bullet holes scarring the rusted doors. It had been my bed more nights than I could count. Safe. Reliable. But now, when I needed it most, the engine coughed, sputtered, and died.
"Come on, baby, don’t do me like this," I muttered, slamming my palm against the dash. Headlights cut through the alley behind us—Kings. Their engines roared, closing in.
"Jesse!" Rosa shrieked, already yanking at the door handle.
I turned the key again, whispering a prayer I didn’t even know I still believed in. The truck coughed, rumbled, and roared to life. Tires squealed as I punched it, fishtailing onto the street. Gunfire shattered the back window.
"Hold on!" I gritted my teeth and gunned it, weaving through traffic, the Kings on our tail. Bullets sparked against the metal, but the GMC held, roaring like a beast, tearing through the city, a rolling piece of history refusing to die.
We lost them on the outskirts, the engine smoking, but we were alive. And that was enough.
We dumped the footage. We made a deal—not with dealers, but with something bigger.
I hit the rehab center, cold turkey. Rosa stayed, her fingers laced through mine, her Urban Nikes tapping against the linoleum floor. Danny got clean too, trading his camera for a lens focused on truth.
But it wasn’t easy. The withdrawals ripped me apart, made me see things. Made me remember. The times I let men do things to me for a hit. The nights I told myself it didn’t matter. That I wasn’t really like that. I wept in the dark, shaking, begging God for forgiveness.
One night, Rosa found me on the floor, clutching a rosary she’d given me. "I ain’t good," I whispered. "I did things. Things I can’t undo."
She exhaled smoke, eyes unreadable. "We all did. But God don’t turn His back, Jesse. You just gotta stop runnin’."
I wasn’t sure I believed that. But I wanted to.
And maybe that was enough.
The North Side Kings never came for us. Maybe God finally stepped in.
Maybe the streets let us go.
I pulled up outside Rosa’s new place, stepping out of my brand-new GMC Sierra, the paint gleaming under the streetlights. No rust. No bullet holes. Just a new start.