Page 29 of Reasons We Break

Rajan’s ready. When Oliver reaches inside and tries to swing around with a gun, Rajan grabs his wrist immediately, bringing it down and twisting his arm behind his back.

“Don’t be an asshole,” he says in Oliver’s ear, kind of pissed off now. “Is this piece even registered? Or are the cops you’re supposedly calling gonna be real interested in it?”

“Fuck...off,” Oliver grits out. Sweat glints from his temple. Rajan doesn’t let go of his wrist. He pushes until Oliver’s backed up inside his house and then kicks the door closed behind them.

The inside looks like it’s already been ransacked; there’s a TV wall mount, cables coming out of the wall, even an Xbox, but no TV. A rectangular patch of carpet, lighter than the rest, indicates recently removed furniture. A desk with a mouse but no computer sits in the corner. Rajan would be willing to bet Oliver pawned all of it. Anything for his next hit.

Oliver makes a break for it right then, lunging to the desk where he’s undoubtedly got another weapon stashed. Rajan hauls him back and punches him in the jaw.

Oliver wails and clutches his face, sinking to the floor. Rajan opens and closes his fist discreetly. Damn, his technique is rusty.

Once he’s certain he hasn’t broken anything, he grabs Oliver’s shaggy hair. “Dude, shut up. I didn’t even hit you that hard. Cough up the money and we’re done.”

“I don’thaveany!”

Fine, then. Rajan shoves him down and picks up his bat. The metal is comfortingly solid against his palm.

But, he can’t bring himself to raise it yet. He vaguely recalls something they said in the gang violence risk group in juvie:In every organization, there’s grunt work no one wants to do. And in every organization, those dirty jobs go to the disadvantaged. Gangs are no different. You will have all the gore and none of the glory.

Rajan attempts to shake off the memory. Oliver still hasn’t moved. This grown-ass adult, curled up sniveling on the carpet. Eyes screwed shut, as if having given up.

Or...as if steeling himself for a job he has to do, like Rajan is.

Rajan pauses. Something about this doesn’t feel right. Why wasn’t Oliver vigilant at the door? Anyone who owes the Lions money should constantly be on edge. Rajan knows that intimately.

He backs up and picks up the discarded gun. He wasn’t paying attention before, but now he weighs it in his hand. It’s obvious now. The gun’s not even loaded.

Rajan drops it. “You knew I was coming, didn’t you?”

Oliver stiffens—momentarily—but that’s all Rajan needs. Suddenly, he’s examining the room, looking at everything differently. That Xbox in the corner. If Oliver’s so in debt, why didn’t he pawn it, too? Why does he even have one without a TV?

Rajan marches over to pick it up. Oliver says, “Wait,” in a panicked voice, but Rajan ignores him. He tilts the reflective black surface up to the light.

And there. A tiny pinhole camera.

Shit. He hurls the whole thing at the wall. It shatters, and he kicks one of the pieces, feeling ill. This was a setup.

He rounds on Oliver. “They paid you to get your shit kicked.” Even as he’s saying it, he can’t believe it. Do the Lions carethis muchabout Rajan’s loyalty? “Whywould you do that? How would you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“They said they’d clear my debts,” Oliver says simply, and Rajan recognizes the feverish glint in his eyes. So one thing is true. The dude is an Oxy fan. But how desperate do you have to be?

Maybe, as desperate as a broke kid hooked on cocaine, a voice in his head points out.

Up until this moment, Rajan didn’t think much about the fact that juvie forced him to get clean. Sure, he’s a lot more clearheaded most days than he used to be, but he didn’t exactly appreciate that until right now watching Oliver. God, is this what he looked like back then? Did people pity him? Were they disgusted?

Feeling even more ill now, he turns for the door.

“Wait,” Oliver calls again. Rajan pauses. “Can you hit me a few more times? So it looks like it happened for real?”

He soundshopeful. Rajan sighs. “Get help, dude.”

Without waiting for a response, he leaves the house.

THIS HAS TObe a dream, Simran thinks for the umpteenth time. Ithasto be.

It doesn’t feel real that she’s sitting in this ice-cream truck—it had sailed into the parking lot out of nowhere, as the blond girl ordered Simran out of her pickup. There was an ice-cream truck just like it the day she met Rajan at Hillway. It’d set him on edge. Now she knows why.

But what they want fromheris a mystery. No one’s spoken to her since they corralled her into the back of the truck and took her phone, her purse, and even her kirpan. All the worst, most nightmarish possibilities have circulated through her head a million times.